A Dialogue. Lute And Voice

L. Sing, Laura, sing, whilst silent are the sphears,
And all the eyes of Heaven are turn'd to ears.

V. Touch thy dead wood, and make each living tree
Unchain its feet, take arms, and follow thee.

CHORUS.
L. Sing. V. Touch. 0 Touch. L. 0 Sing.
BOTH. It is the souls, souls sole offering.

V. Touch the divinity of thy chords, and make
Each heart string tremble, and each sinew shake.

L. Whilst with your voyce you rarifie the air,
None but an host of angels hover here.

CHORUS. SING, TOUCH, &c.

V. Touch thy soft lute, and in each gentle thread
The lyon and the panther captive lead.

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poem by Richard Lovelace
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To My Noble Kinsman Thomas Stanley, Esq. On His Lyrick Poem

I.
What means this stately tablature,
The ballance of thy streins,
Which seems, in stead of sifting pure,
T' extend and rack thy veins?
Thy Odes first their own harmony did break:
For singing, troth, is but in tune to speak.

II.
Nor trus thy golden feet and wings.
It may be thought false melody
T' ascend to heav'n by silver strings;
This is Urania's heraldry.
Thy royal poem now we may extol,
As truly Luna blazon'd upon Sol.

III.
As when Amphion first did call
Each listning stone from's den;
And with his lute did form the wall,

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poem by Richard Lovelace
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To My Noble Kinsman Thomas Stanley, Esq. On His Lyrick Poems Composed By Mr. John Gamble.

I.
What means this stately tablature,
The ballance of thy streins,
Which seems, in stead of sifting pure,
T' extend and rack thy veins?
Thy Odes first their own harmony did break:
For singing, troth, is but in tune to speak.

II.
Nor trus thy golden feet and wings.
It may be thought false melody
T' ascend to heav'n by silver strings;
This is Urania's heraldry.
Thy royal poem now we may extol,
As truly Luna blazon'd upon Sol.

III.
As when Amphion first did call
Each listning stone from's den;
And with his lute did form the wall,

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poem by Richard Lovelace
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Gratiana Dancing and Singing

I.

See! with what constant motion
Even and glorious, as the sunne,
Gratiana steeres that noble frame,
Soft as her breast, sweet as her voyce,
That gave each winding law and poyze,
And swifter then the wings of Fame.

II.

She beat the happy pavement
By such a starre-made firmament,
Which now no more the roofe envies;
But swells up high with Atlas ev'n,
Bearing the brighter, nobler Heav'n,
And in her, all the Dieties.

III.

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poem by Richard Lovelace
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In Rufum. Catul. Ep. 64

IN RUFUM. CATUL. EP. 64.

Noli admirari, quare tibi foemina nulla,
Rufe, velit tenerum supposuisse femur;
Non ullam rarae labefactes munere vestis,
Aut pellucidulis deliciis lapidis.
Laedit te quaedam mala fabula, qua tibi fertur
Valle sub alarum trux habitare caper.
Hunc metuunt omnes, neque mirum: nam mala valde est
Bestia, nec quicum bela puella cubet.
Quare aut crudelem nasorum interfice pestem,
Aut admirari desine, cur fugiant.

TO RUFUS.

That no fair woman will, wonder not why,
Clap (Rufus) under thine her tender thigh;
Not a silk gown shall once melt one of them,
Nor the delights of a transparent gemme.
A scurvy story kills thee, which doth tell,

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poem by Richard Lovelace
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Ad Lesbiam, Cat. Ep. 73

AD LESBIAM, CAT. EP. 73.

Dicebas quondam, solum to nosse Catullum,
Lesbia, nec prae me velle tenere Jovem;
Dilexi tum te, non tantum ut vulgus amicam,
Sed pater ut gnatos diligit et generos.
Nunc te cognovi, quare et impensius uror,
Multo mi tamen es vilior et levior.
Qui potis est inquis, quod amantem injuria talis
Cogat amare magis, sed bene velle minus?
Odi et amo; quare id faciam, fortasse requiris;
Nescio; sed fieri sentio, et excrucior.

ENGLISHED.

That me alone you lov'd, you once did say,
Nor should I to the king of gods give way.
Then I lov'd thee not as a common dear,
But as a father doth his children chear.
Now thee I know, more bitterly I smart;

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poem by Richard Lovelace
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Song To Amarantha, That She Would Dishevel Her Hair

Amarantha sweet and fair
Ah braid no more that shining hair!
As my curious hand or eye
Hovering round thee let it fly.

Let it fly as unconfin'd
As its calm ravisher, the wind,
Who hath left his darling th'East,
To wanton o'er that spicy nest.

Ev'ry tress must be confest
But neatly tangled at the best;
Like a clue of golden thread,
Most excellently ravelled.

Do not then wind up that light
In ribands, and o'er-cloud in night;
Like the sun in's early ray,
But shake your head and scatter day.

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poem by Richard Lovelace
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Another

I.
As I beheld a winter's evening air,
Curl'd in her court-false-locks of living hair,
Butter'd with jessamine the sun left there.

II.
Galliard and clinquant she appear'd to give,
A serenade or ball to us that grieve,
And teach us A LA MODE more gently live.

III.
But as a Moor, who to her cheeks prefers
White spots, t' allure her black idolaters,
Me thought she look'd all ore-bepatch'd with stars.

IV.
Like the dark front of some Ethiopian queen,
Vailed all ore with gems of red, blew, green,
Whose ugly night seem'd masked with days skreen.

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poem by Richard Lovelace
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To Ellinda Upon His Late Recovery. A Paradox

I.
How I grieve that I am well!
All my health was in my sicknes,
Go then, Destiny, and tell,
Very death is in this quicknes.

II.
Such a fate rules over me,
That I glory when I languish,
And do blesse the remedy,
That doth feed, not quench my anguish.

III.
'Twas a gentle warmth that ceas'd
In the vizard of a feavor;
But I feare now I am eas'd
All the flames, since I must leave her.

IV.
Joyes, though witherd, circled me,

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poem by Richard Lovelace
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Night. To Lucasta

Night! loathed jaylor of the lock'd up sun,
And tyrant-turnkey on committed day,
Bright eyes lye fettered in thy dungeon,
And Heaven it self doth thy dark wards obey.
Thou dost arise our living hell;
With thee grones, terrors, furies dwell;
Until LUCASTA doth awake,
And with her beams these heavy chaines off shake.

Behold! with opening her almighty lid,
Bright eyes break rowling, and with lustre spread,
And captive day his chariot mounted is;
Night to her proper hell is beat,
And screwed to her ebon seat;
Till th' Earth with play oppressed lies,
And drawes again the curtains of her eyes.

But, bondslave, I know neither day nor night;
Whether she murth'ring sleep, or saving wake;
Now broyl'd ith' zone of her reflected light,

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poem by Richard Lovelace
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