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SIR JOHN DENHAM (1615-1669) RICHARD LOVELACE (1618-1658)

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By his old sire to his embraces runs,
Hasting to pay his tribute to the sea,
Like mortal life to meet eternity;

Though with those streams he no resemblance hold,

Whose foam is amber, and their gravel gold,
His genuine and less guilty wealth to explore,
Search not his bottom, but survey his shore,
O'er which he kindly spreads his spacious
wing,

And hatches plenty for th' ensuing spring; 70
Nor then destroys it with too fond a stay,
Like mothers which their infants overlay,
Nor, with a sudden and impetuous wave,
Like profuse kings, resumes the wealth he

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O Thou that swing'st upo knew us not; Of some well-filled oateh so much horr Drunk every night with a cars and weak Dropt thee from heavenix hours ago, tewert rear'd. ble or ambit e regret, sta

The joys of earth and air arbody lies stri That with thy feet and wirve read of aand fly;

And when thy poppy wo
To thy carved acorn-b

lie.

ho, liv offlost retire 8

Up with the day, the sun thou welcom'st
then,

Sport'st in the gilt plaits of his beams,
And all these merry days mak'st merry, men,
Thyself, and melancholy streams.

TO ALTHEA, FROM PRISON

When Love with unconfinèd wings Hovers within my gates,

And my divine Althea brings

To whisper at the grates;
When I lie tangled in her hair
And fetter'd to her eye,

The birds that wanton in the air
Know no such liberty.

When flowing cups run swiftly round With no allaying Thames,1

1 diluting water

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Fair trees! wheres'e'er your barks I wound
No name shall but your own be found.

When we have run our passion's heat,
Love hither makes his best retreat.
The gods, that mortal beauty chase,
Still in a tree did end their race;
Apollo hunted Daphne so,
Only that she might laurel grow;
And Pan did after Syrinx speed,
Not as a nymph, but for a reed.

What wondrous life is this I lead!
Ripe apples drop about my head;
The luscious clusters of the vine
Upon my mouth do crush their wine;
The nectarine, and curious 1 peach,
Into my hands themselves do reach;
Stumbling on melons, as I pass,
Insnared with flowers, I fall on grass.

Meanwhile the mind, from pleasure less,
Withdraws into its happiness;
The mind, that ocean where each kind
Does straight its own resemblance find;
Yet it creates, transcending these,
Far other worlds, and other seas,
Annihilating all that's made
To a green thought in a green shade.

Here at the fountain's sliding foot,
Or at some fruit-tree's mossy root,
Casting the body's vest aside,
My soul into the boughs does glide:
There, like a bird, it sits and sings,
Then whets and combs its silver wings,
And, till prepared for longer flight,
Waves in its plumes the various light.

Such was that happy garden-state,
While man there walked without a mate.
After a place so pure and sweet,
What other help could yet be meet!
But 'twas beyond a mortal's share
To wander solitary there:
Two paradises 'twere in one,
To live in paradise alone.

How well the skilful gardener drew
Of flowers, and herbs, this dial2 new;
Where, from above, the milder sun
Does through a fragrant zodiac run,
And, as it works, the industrious bee

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1 rare, exotic 2a bed of various flowers which, opening at successive hours, indicate the time of day

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Had we but world enough, and time, This coyness, Lady, were no crime, We would sit down and think which way To walk and pass our long love's day. Thou by the Indian Ganges' side Shouldst rubies find; I by the tide Of Humber would complain. I would Love you ten years before the Flood, And you should, if you please, refuse Till the conversion of the Jews. My vegetable love should grow Vaster than empires, and more slow; An hundred years should go to praise Thine eyes and on thy forehead gaze; Two hundred to adore each breast, But thirty thousand to the rest ; An age at least to every part,

And the last age should show your heart. For, Lady, you deserve this state,

Nor would I love at lower rate.

But at my back I always hear

Time's winged chariot hurrying near;
And yonder all before us lie
Deserts of vast eternity.

Thy beauty shall no more be found,

Nor, in thy marble vault, shall sound

My echoing song; then worms shall try
That long preserved virginity,

And your quaint honour turn to dust,
And into ashes all my lust:

The grave's a fine and private place, But none, I think, do there embrace.

Now therefore, while the youthful hue
Sits on thy skin like morning dew,
And while thy willing soul transpires
At every pore with instant fires,
Now let us sport us while we may,
And now, like amorous birds of prey,
Rather at once our time devour

Than languish in his slow-chapt1 power. 40
Let us roll all our strength and all

Our sweetness up into one ball,

And tear our pleasures with rough strife
Thorough 2 the iron gates of life:

Thus, though we cannot make our sun
Stand still, yet we will make him run.

1 Time is represented as having jaws (chaps) that move slowly. 2 through

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ΙΟ

HENRY VAUGHAN (1622-1695)

THE RETREAT

Happy those early days, when I
Shined in my angel-infancy!
Before I understood this place
Appointed for my second race,
Or taught my soul to fancy ought
But a white, celestial thought;
When yet I had not walked above
A mile or two from my first love,

And looking back at that short space -
Could see a glimpse of His bright face;
When on some gilded cloud or flower
My gazing soul would dwell an hour,
And in those weaker glories spy
Some shadows of eternity;

Before I taught my tongue to wound
My conscience with a sinful sound,
Or had the black art to dispense,
A several sin to every sense,
But felt through all this fleshly dress
Bright shoots of everlastingness.

O how I long to travel back,
And tread again that ancient track!
That I might once more reach that plain,
Where first I left my glorious train;
From whence the enlightened spirit sees
That shady city of palm trees.
But ah! my soul with too much stay
Is drunk, and staggers in the way!
Some men a forward motion love,

But I by backward steps would move;
And when this dust falls to the urn,

In that state I came, return.

FROM THE WORLD

I saw Eternity the other night,

Like a great ring of pure and endless light, All calm, as it was bright;

ΙΟ

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FROM ABSALOM AND ACHITOPHEL

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Of these the false Achitophel1 was first, 150 A name to all succeeding ages curst: For close designs and crooked counsels fit, Sagacious, bold, and turbulent of wit,3 Restless, unfixed in principles and place, In power unpleased, impatient of disgrace: 155 A fiery soul, which, working out its way, Fretted the pigmy body to decay

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And o'er-informed the tenement of clay.
A daring pilot in extremity,

Pleased with the danger, when the waves went

high,

He sought the storms; but, for a calm unfit, Would steer too nigh the sands to boast his

wit.

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Great wits are sure to madness near allied
And thin partitions do their bounds divide;
Else, why should he, with wealth and honour
blest,

Refuse his age the needful hours of rest? 166
Punish a body which he could not please,
Bankrupt of life, yet prodigal of ease?
And all to leave what with his toil he won
To that unfeathered two-legg'd thing, a son. 170

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A numerous host of dreaming saints succeed Of the true old enthusiastic breed: 530 'Gainst form and order they their power employ,

Nothing to build and all things to destroy.
But far more numerous was the herd of such
Who think too little and who talk too much.
These out of mere instinct, they knew not
why,

Adored their fathers' God and property, 536
And by the same blind benefit of Fate
The Devil and the Jebusite did hate:
Born to be saved even in their own despite,
Because they could not help believing right. 540

1 the Earl of Shaftesbury 2 secret 3 intellect 4 overfilled their enemies, the Catholics

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