I never stoop'd so low, as they Which on an eye, cheeke, lip, can prey, Seldome to them, which soare no higher Then vertue or the minde to' admire, For sense, and understanding may Know, what gives fuell to their fire: My love, though silly, is more brave, For may I misse, when ere I crave, If I know yet, what I would have. I have done one braver thing Then all the Worthies________ did, Yet a braver thence doth spring, Which is, to keepe that hid. Image of her whom I love, more then she, Whose faire impression in my faithfull heart, Makes mee her Medall, and makes her love mee, As Kings do coynes, to which their stamps impart The value: goe, and take my heart from hence, Which now is growne too great and good for me: Honours oppresse weake spirits, and our sense Strong objects dull; the more, the lesse wee see. Where, like a pillow on a bed, A Pregnant banke swel'd up, to rest The violets reclining head, Sat we two, one anothers best; Oh doe not die, for I shall hate All women so, when thou art gone, That thee I shall not celebrate, When I remember, thou wast one. As virtuous men passe mildly' away, And whisper to their soules, to goe, Whilst some of their sad friends doe say, The breath goes now, and some say, no: My name engrav'd herein, Doth contribute my firmnesse to this glasse, Which, ever since that charme, hath beene As hard, as that which grav'd it, was; Thine eyes will give it price enough, to mock The diamonds of either rock. I'll tell thee now (deare Love) what thou shalt doe To anger destiny, as she doth us, How I shall stay, though she esloygne me thus, How thine may out-endure Sybills glory, and obscure Her who from Pindar______ could allure, And her, through whose help Lucan_____ is not lame, And her, whose booke (they say) Homer_____ did finde, and name. Let me powre forth My teares before thy face, whil'st I stay here, For thy face coines them, and thy stampe they beare, And by this Mintage they are something worth, For thus they bee Pregnant of thee; Fruits of much griefe they are, emblemes of more, When a teare falls, that thou falls which it bore, So thou and I are nothing then, when on a divers shore. I wonder by my troth, what thou, and I Did, till we lov'd? were we not wean'd till then? But suck'd on countrey pleasures, childishly? Or snorted we i' the seaven sleepers den? 'Twas so; But this, all pleasures fancies bee. If ever any beauty I did see, Which I desir'd, and got, 'twas but a dreame of thee. All kings, and all their favorites, All glory' of honors, beauties, wits, The Sun it selfe, which makes times, as they passe, Is elder by a yeare, now, then it was When thou and I first one another saw: All other things, to their destruction draw, Only our love hath no decay; This, no tomorrow hath, nor yesterday, Running it never runs from us away, But truly keepes his first, last, everlasting day. Busie old foole, unruly Sunne, Why dost thou thus, Through windowes, and through curtaines call on us? Must to thy motions lovers seasons run? Sawcy pedantique wretch, goe chide Late schoole boyes, and sowre prentices, Goe tell Court-huntsmen, that the King will ride, Call countrey ants to harvest offices; Love, all alike, no season knowes, nor clyme, Nor houres, dayes, months, which are the rags of time. Or chide my palsie, or my gout, My five gray haires, or ruin'd fortune flout, With wealth your state, your minde with Arts improve, Take you a course, get you a place, Observe his honour, or his grace, And the Kings reall, or his stamped face Contemplate; what you will, approve, So you will let me love. Twice or thrice had I lov'd thee, Before I knew thy face or name; So in a voice, so in a shapelesse flame, Angells_______ affect us oft, and worship'd bee; Still when, to where thou wert, I came, Some lovely glorious nothing I did see. But since my soule, whose child love is, Takes limmes of flesh, and else could nothing doe, More subtile then the parent is, Love must not be, but take a body too, And therefore what thou wert, and who, I bid Love aske, and now That it assume thy body, I allow, And fixe it selfe in thy lip, eye, and brow. I scarce beleeve my love to be so pure As I had thought it was, Because it doth endure Vicissitude, and season, as the grasse; Me thinkes I lyed all winter, when I swore, My love was infinite, if spring make' it more. But if this medicine, love, which cures all sorrow With more, not onely bee no quintessence, But mixt of all stuffes, paining soule, or sense, And of the Sunne his working vigour borrow, Love's not pure, and abstract, as they use To say, which have no Mistresse but their Muse, But as all else, being elemented too, Love sometimes would contemplate, sometimes do. If yet I have not all thy love, Deare, I shall never have it all; I cannot breath one other sigh, to move, Nor can intreat one other teare to fall. All my treasure, which should purchase thee, Sighs, teares, and oathes, and letters I have spent, Yet no more can be due to mee, Then at the bargaine made was ment. That some to mee, some should to others fall, Deare, I shall never have Thee All. Stand still, and I will read to thee A Lecture, Love, in loves philosophy. These three houres that we have spent, Walking here, two shadows went Along with us, which we our selves produc'd; But, now the Sunne is just above our head, We doe those shadowes tread; And to brave clearenesse all things are reduc'd. So whilst our infant loves did grow, Disguises did, and shadowes, flow From us, and our care; but, now 'tis not so. Deare love, for nothing lesse then thee Would I have broke this happy dreame, It was a theame For reason, much too strong for phantasie, Therefore thou wakd'st me wisely; yet My Dreame thou brok'st not, but continued'st it, Thou art so true, that thoughts of thee suffice, To make dreames truth; and fables histories; Enter these armes, for since thou thoughtst it best, Not to dreame all my dreame, let's do the rest. Some that have deeper digg'd loves Myne then I, Say, where his centrique happinesse doth lie: I have lov'd, and got, and told, But should I love, get, tell, till I were old, I should not finde that hidden mysterie; Oh, 'tis imposture all: And as no chymique yet th' Elixar got, But glorifies his pregnant pot, If by the way to him befall Some odoriferous thing, or med'cinall, So, lovers dreame a rich and long delight, But get a winter-seeming summers night. Whilst yet to prove, I thought there was some Deitie in love, So did I reverence, and gave Worship, as Atheists at their dying houre Call, what they cannot name, an unknowne power, As ignorantly did I crave: Thus when Things not yet knowne are coveted by men, Our desires give them fashion, and so As they waxe lesser, fall, as they sise, grow. Blasted with sighs, and surrounded with teares, Hither I come to seeke the spring, And at mine eyes, and at mine eares, Receive such balmes, as else cure every thing; But O, selfe traytor, I do bring The spider love, which transubstantiates all, And can convert Manna to gall, And that this place may thoroughly be thought True Paradise, I have the serpent brought. 'Tis the yeares midnight, and it is the dayes, Lucies, who scarce seaven houres herself unmaskes, The Sunne is spent, and now his flasks Send forth light squibs, no constant rayes; The world's whole sap is sunke: The generall balme th' hydroptique earth hath drunke, Whither, as to the beds-feet, life has shrunke, Dead and enterr'd; yet all these seeme to laugh, Compar'd with mee, who am their Epitaph. Shee' is dead; And all which die To their first Elements resolve; And wee were mutuall Elements to us, And made of one another. My body then doth hers involve, And those things whereof I consist, hereby In me abundant grow, and burdenous, And nourish not, but smother. My fire of Passion, sighes of ayre, Water of teares, and earthly sad dispaire, Which my materialls bee, But neere worne out by loves securitie, Shee, to my losse, doth by her death repaire, And I might live long wretched so But that my fire doth with my fuell grow. Now as those Active Kings Whose foraine conquest treasure brings, Receive more, and spend more, and soonest breake: This (which I am amaz'd that I can speake) This death, hath with my store My use encreas'd. And so my soule more earnestly releas'd, Will outstrip hers; as bullets flown before A latter bullet may o'rtake, the pouder being more. Little think'st thou, poore flower, Whom I' have watch'd sixe or seaven dayes, Gave to thy growth, thee to this height to raise, And now dost laugh and triumph on this bough, Little think'st thou That it will freeze anon, and that I shall To morrow finde thee falne, or not at all. Vpon this primrose hill, Where, if Heav'n would distill A shoure of raine, each severall drop might goe To his owne primrose, and grow Manna so; And where their forme, and their infinitie Make a terrestriall Galaxie, As the small starres doe in the skie: I walke to finde a true Love; and I see That 'tis not a mere woman, that is shee, But must, or more, or lesse then woman bee. When my grave is broke up againe Some second ghest to entertaine, (For graves have learn'd that woman-head To be to more then one a Bed) And he that digs it, spies A bracelet of bright haire about the bone, Will he not let' us alone, And thinke that there a loving couple lies, Who thought that this device might be some way To make their soules, at the last busie day, Meet at this grave, and make a little stay? Who ever comes to shroud me, do not harme Nor question much That subtile wreath of haire, which crowns mine arme; The mystery, the signe you must not touch, For 'tis my outward Soule, Viceroy to that, which then to heaven being gone, Will leave this to controule, Goe, and catche a falling starre, Get with child a mandrake roote, Tell me, where all past yeares are, Or who cleft the Divels foot, Teach me to heare Mermaides singing, Or to keep off envies stinging, And finde What winde Serves to' advance an honest minde. The Message Send home my long strayd eyes to mee, Which (Oh) too long have dwelt on thee, Yet since there they' have learn'd such ill, Such forc'd fashions, And false passions, That they be Made by thee Fit for no good sight, keep them still. Song (Sweetest love, I do not goe) Sweetest love, I do not goe, For wearinesse of thee, Nor in hope the world can show A fitter Love for mee; But since that I Must dye at last, 'tis best, To use my selfe in jest Thus by fain'd deaths to dye. The Baite Come live with mee, and bee my love, And we will some new pleasures prove Of golden sands, and christall brookes, With silken lines, and silver hookes. Good wee must love, and must hate ill, For ill is ill, and good good still, But there are things indifferent, Which wee may neither hate, nor love, But one, and then another prove, As wee shall finde our fancy bent. Some man unworthy to be possessor Of old or new love, himselfe being false or weake, Thought his paine and shame would be lesser, If on womankind he might his anger wreake, And thence a law did grow, One should but one man know; But are other creatures so? 'Tis true, 'tis day, what though it be? O wilt thou therefore rise from me? Why should we rise, because 'tis light? Did we lie downe, because 'twas night? Love which in spight of darknesse brought us hether, Should in despight of light keepe us together. For the first twenty yeares, since yesterday, For forty more, I fed on favours past, And forty' on hopes, that thou would'st, they might last. Teares drown'd one hundred, and sighes blew out two, A thousand, I did neither thinke, nor doe, Or not divide, all being one thought of you; Or in a thousand more, forgot that too. Yet call not this long life; But thinke that I Am, by being dead, Immortall; Can ghosts die? So, so, breake off this last lamenting kisse, Which sucks two soules, and vapors both away, Turne thou ghost that way, and let mee turne this, And let our selves benight our happiest day, We ask'd none leave to love; nor will we owe Any, so cheape a death, as saying, Goe; I fixe mine eye on thine, and there Pitty my picture burning in thine eye, My picture drown'd in a transparent teare, When I looke lower I espie; Hadst thou the wicked skill By pictures made and mard, to kill, How many wayes mightst thou perform thy will? Thou art not so black, as my heart, Nor halfe so brittle, as her heart, thou art; What would'st thou say? shall both our properties by thee bee spoke, Nothing more endlesse, nothing sooner broke? No Lover saith, I love, nor any other Can judge a perfect Lover; Hee thinkes that else none can nor will agree, That any loves but hee: I cannot say I lov'd, for who can say Hee was kill'd yesterday? Love with excesse of heat, more yong then old, Death kills with too much cold; Wee dye but once, and who lov'd last did die, Hee that saith twice, doth lye: For though hee seeme to move, and stirre a while, It doth the sense beguile. Such life is like the light which bideth yet When the lights life is set, Or like the heat, which fire in solid matter Leaves behinde, two houres after. Once I lov'd and dyed; and am now become Mine Epitaph and Tombe. Love-slaine, loe, here I lye. Take heed of loving mee, At least remember, I forbade it thee; Not that I shall repaire my' unthrifty wast Of Breath and Blood, upon thy sighes, and teares, By being to thee then what to me thou wast; But, so great Joy, our life at once outweares, Then, least thy love, by my death, frustrate bee, If thou love mee, take heed of loving mee. Who ever guesses, thinks, or dreames he knowes Who is my mistris, wither by this curse; His only,' and only' his purse May some dull heart to love dispose, And shee yeeld then to all that are his foes; May he be scorn'd by one, whom all else scorne, Forsweare to others, what to her he' hath sworne, With feare of missing, shame of getting, torne: I can love both faire and browne, Her whom abundance melts, and her whom want betraies, Her who loves lonenesse best, and her who masks and plaies, Her whom the country form'd, and whom the town, Her who beleeves, and her who tries, Her who still weepes with spungie eyes, And her who is dry corke, and never cries; I can love her, and her, and you and you, I can love any, so she be not true. Now thou hast lov'd me one whole day, To morrow when thou leav'st, what wilt thou say? Wilt thou then Antedate some new made vow? Or say that now We are not just those persons, which we were? Or, that oathes made in reverentiall feare Of Love, and his wrath, any may forsweare? Or, as true deaths, true maryages untie, So lovers contracts, images of those, Binde but till sleep, deaths image, them unloose? Or, your owne end to Justifie, For having purpos'd change, and falsehood; you Can have no way but falsehood to be true? Vaine lunatique, against these scapes I could Dispute, and conquer, if I would, Which I abstaine to doe, For by to morrow, I may thinke so too. When by thy scorne, O murdresse, I am dead, And that thou thinkst thee free From all solicitation from mee, Then shall my ghost come to thy bed, And thee, fain'd vestall, in worse armes shall see; Then thy sicke taper will begin to winke, And he, whose thou art then, being tyr'd before, Will, if thou stirre, or pinch to wake him, thinke Thou call'st for more, And in false sleepe will from thee shrinke, And then poore Aspen wretch, neglected thou Bath'd in a cold quicksilver sweat wilt lye A veryer ghost then I; What I will say, I will not tell thee now, Lest that preserve thee;' and since my love is spent, I' had rather thou shouldst painfully repent, Then by my threatnings rest still innocent. For every houre that thou wilt spare mee now, I will allow, Usurious God of Love, twenty to thee, When with my browne, my gray haires equall bee; Till then, Love, let my body raigne, and let Mee travell, sojourne, snatch, plot, have, forget, Resume my last yeares relict: thinke that yet We' had never met. To what a combersome unwieldinesse And burdenous corpulence my love had growne, But that I did, to make it lesse, And keepe it in proportion, Give it a diet, made it feed upon That which love worst endures, discretion__________. Love____, any devill else but you, Would for a given Soule give something too. At Court your fellowes every day, Give th' art of Riming, Huntsmanship, and Play, For them who were their owne before; Onely' I have nothing which gave more, But am, alas, by being lowly, lower. I long to talke with some old lovers ghost, Who dyed before the god of Love was borne: I cannot thinke that hee, who then lov'd most, Sunke so low, as to love one which did scorne. But since this god produc'd a destinie, I must love her, that loves not mee. When I am dead, and Doctors know not why, And my friends curiositie Will have me cut up to survay each part, When they shall finde your Picture in my heart, You thinke a sodaine dampe of love Will thorough all their senses move, And worke on them as mee, and so preferre Your murder, to the name of Massacre. When I dyed last, and Deare, I dye As often as from thee I goe, Though it be an houre agoe, And Lovers houres be full eternity I can remember yet, that I Something did say, and something did bestow; Though I be dead, which sent mee, I should be Mine owne executor and Legacie. He is starke mad, who ever sayes, That he hath beene in love an houre, Yet not that love so soone decayes, But that it can tenne in lesse space devour; Who will beleeve me, if I sweare That I have had the plague a yeare? Who would not laugh at mee, if I should say, I saw a flaske of powder______ burne_____ a_ day___? I am two fooles, I know, For loving, and for saying so In whining Poetry; But where's that wiseman, that would not be I, If she would not deny? Then as th' earths inward narrow crooked lanes Do purge sea waters fretfull salt away, I thought, if I could draw my paines, Through Rimes vexation, I should them allay, Griefe brought to numbers cannot be so fierce, For, he tames it, that fetters it in verse. Marke but this flea, and marke in this, How little that which thou deny'st me is; Mee it suck'd first, and now sucks thee, And in this flea, our two bloods mingled bee; Confesse it, this cannot be said A sinne, or shame, or losse of maidenhead, Yet this enjoyes before it wooe, And pamper'd swells with one blood made of two, And this, alas, is more then wee would doe. Before I sigh my last gaspe, let me breath, Great love, some legacies; Here I bequeath Mine eyes to Argus_____, if mine eyes can see, If they be blinde, then Love, I give them thee; My tongue to Fame; to' Embassadours mine eares; To women or the sea, my teares. Thou, Love, hast taught mee heretofore By making mee serve her who' had twenty more,