Mart. Epi. XLIII. Lib. I.

MART. EPI. XLIII. LIB. I.

Conjugis audisset fatum cum Portia Bruti,
Et substracta sibi quaereret arma dolor,
Nondum scitis, ait, mortem non posse negari,
Credideram satis hoc vos docuisse patrem.
Dixit, et ardentes avido bibit ore favillas.
I nunc, et ferrum turba molesta nega.

IN ENGLISH.

When Portia her dear lord's sad fate did hear,
And noble grief sought arms were hid from her:
Know you not yet no hinderance of death is,
Cato, I thought, enough had taught you this,
So said, her thirsty lips drink flaming coales:
Go now, deny me steel, officious fools!

poem by Richard Lovelace
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Gratiana Dancing

SHE beat the happy pavement--
By such a star made firmament,
   Which now no more the roof envies!
   But swells up high, with Atlas even,
   Bearing the brighter nobler heaven,
   And, in her, all the deities.

Each step trod out a Lover's thought,
And the ambitious hopes he brought
   Chain'd to her brave feet with such arts,
   Such sweet command and gentle awe,
   As, when she ceased, we sighing saw
   The floor lay paved with broken hearts.

poem by Richard Lovelace
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Sonnet

I.
When I by thy faire shape did sweare,
And mingled with each vowe a teare,
I lov'd, I lov'd thee best,
I swore as I profest.
For all the while you lasted warme and pure,
My oathes too did endure.
But once turn'd faithlesse to thy selfe and old,
They then with thee incessantly grew cold.

II.
I swore my selfe thy sacrifice
By th' ebon bowes that guard thine eyes,
Which now are alter'd white,
And by the glorious light
Of both those stars, which of their spheres bereft,
Only the gellie's left.
Then changed thus, no more I'm bound to you,
Then swearing to a saint that proves untrue.

poem by Richard Lovelace
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De Quintia Et Sesbia. Ep. 87

DE QUINTIA ET LESBIA. EP. 87.

Quintia formosa est multis, mihi candida, longa,
Recta est; haec ego sic singula confiteor:
Tota illud formosa nego: nam multa venustas;
Nulla in tam magno est corpore mica salis.
Lesbia formosa est quae, cum pulcherrima tota est,
Tum omnibus una omneis surripuit veneres.

ENGLISHED.

Quintia is handsome, fair, tall, straight: all these
Very particulars I grant with ease:
But she all ore 's not handsome; here's her fault:
In all that bulk there's not one corne of salt,
Whilst Lesbia, fair and handsome too all ore,
All graces and all wit from all hath bore.

poem by Richard Lovelace
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When I by Thy Faire Shape Did Sweare

I.

When I by thy faire shape did sweare,
And mingled with each vowe a teare,
I lov'd, I lov'd thee best,
I swore as I profest.
For all the while you lasted warme and pure,
My oathes too did endure.
But once turn'd faithlesse to thy selfe and old,
They then with thee incessantly grew cold.

II.

I swore my selfe thy sacrifice
By th' ebon bowes that guard thine eyes,
Which now are alter'd white,
And by the glorious light
Of both those stars, which of their spheres bereft,
Only the gellie's left.
Then changed thus, no more I'm bound to you,

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poem by Richard Lovelace
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Ellinda's Glove. Sonnet

I.
Thou snowy farme with thy five tenements!
Tell thy white mistris here was one,
That call'd to pay his dayly rents;
But she a-gathering flowr's and hearts is gone,
And thou left voyd to rude possession.

II.
But grieve not, pretty Ermin cabinet,
Thy alabaster lady will come home;
If not, what tenant can there fit
The slender turnings of thy narrow roome,
But must ejected be by his owne dombe?

III.
Then give me leave to leave my rent with thee:
Five kisses, one unto a place:
For though the lute's too high for me,
Yet servants, knowing minikin nor base,
Are still allow'd to fiddle with the case.

poem by Richard Lovelace
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The Grasshopper

O THOU that swing'st upon the waving hair
   Of some well-filled oaten beard,
Drunk every night with a delicious tear
   Dropt thee from heaven, where thou wert rear'd!

The joys of earth and air are thine entire,
   That with thy feet and wings dost hop and fly;
And when thy poppy works, thou dost retire
   To thy carved acorn-bed to lie.

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.

poem by Richard Lovelace
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To His Fairest Valentine, Mrs. A.L.

"Come, pretty birds, present your lays,
And learn to chaunt a goddess praise;
Ye wood-nymphs, let your voices be
Employ'd to serve her deity:
And warble forth, ye virgins nine,
Some music to my Valentine.

"Her bosom is love's paradise,
There is no heav'n but in her eyes;
She's chaster than the turtle-dove,
And fairer than the queen of love:
Yet all perfections do combine
To beautifie my Valentine.

"She's Nature's choicest cabinet,
Where honour, beauty, worth and wit
Are all united in her breast.
The graces claim an interest:
All virtues that are most divine
Shine clearest in my Valentine."

poem by Richard Lovelace
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Lucasta Laughing

Heark, how she laughs aloud,
Although the world put on its shrowd:
Wept at by the fantastic crowd,
Who cry: one drop, let fall
From her, might save the universal ball.
She laughs again
At our ridiculous pain;
And at our merry misery
She laughs, until she cry.
Sages, forbear
That ill-contrived tear,
Although your fear
Doth barricado hope from your soft ear.
That which still makes her mirth to flow,
Is our sinister-handed woe,
Which downwards on its head doth go,
And, ere that it is sown, doth grow.
This makes her spleen contract,
And her just pleasure feast:
For the unjustest act

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poem by Richard Lovelace
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Song

I.
Strive not, vain lover, to be fine;
Thy silk's the silk-worm's, and not thine:
You lessen to a fly your mistriss' thought,
To think it may be in a cobweb caught.
What, though her thin transparent lawn
Thy heart in a strong net hath drawn:
Not all the arms the god of fire ere made
Can the soft bulwarks of nak'd love invade.

II.
Be truly fine, then, and yourself dress
In her fair soul's immac'late glass.
Then by reflection you may have the bliss
Perhaps to see what a true fineness is;
When all your gawderies will fit
Those only that are poor in wit.
She that a clinquant outside doth adore,
Dotes on a gilded statue and no more.

poem by Richard Lovelace
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