SYDNEY GODOLPHIN.

1610-1643.

SONG.

OR love me less, or love me more;
And play not with my liberty:
Either take all, or all restore;

Bind me at least, or set me free!
Let me some nobler torture find
Than of a doubtful wavering mind:
Take all my peace! but you betray
Mine honour too, this cruel way.

"Tis true that I have nursed before

That hope, of which I now complain;
And, having little, sought no more,

Fearing to meet with your disdain.
The sparks of favour you did give,
I gently blew, to make them live;

And yet have gained, by all this care,
No rest in hope, nor in despair.

I see you wear that pitying smile

Which you have still vouchsafed my smart,

Content thus cheaply to beguile

And entertain an harmless heart:

But I no longer can give way

To hope which doth so little pay;

And yet I dare no freedom owe,
Whilst you are kind, though but in show.

Then give me more, or give me less :
Do not disdain a mutual sense;

Or your unpitying beauties dress

In their own free indifference!
But show not a severer eye,
Sooner to give me liberty;

For I shall love the very scorn

Which, for my sake, you do put on.

WILLIAM CARTRIGHT.

1611-1643.

-["Comedies, Tragi-comedies, with other Poems." 1651.]

A SIGH SENT TO HIS ABSENT LOVE.

I SENT a sigh unto my blest one's ear,
Which lost its way, and never did come there;

I hastened after, lest some other fair

Should mildly entertain this travelling air;
Each flowery garden I did search, for fear

It might mistake a lily for her ear;

And having there took lodging, might still dwell
Housed in the concave of a crystal bell.
At last, one frosty morning I did spy
This subtle wanderer journeying in the sky;
At sight of me it trembled, then drew near,
Then grieving fell, and dropped into a tear:
I bore it to my saint, and prayed her take
This new-born offspring for the master's sake:
She took it, and preferred it to her ear,

And now it hears each thing that's whispered there.

O how I envy grief, when that I see

My sorrow makes a gem more blest than me!

Yet, little pendant, porter to the ear,

Let not my rival have admittance there;
Or if by chance a mild access he gain,
Upon her lip inflict a gentle pain

Only for admonition: so when she

Gives ear to him, at least she'll think of me.

TO CHLOE.

WHO WISHED HERSELF YOUNG ENOUGH FOR ME.

Chloe, why wish you that your years

Would backwards run, till they meet mine?

That perfect likeness, which endears

Things unto things, might us combine?

Our ages so in date agree,

That twins do differ more than we.

There are two births, the one when light

First strikes the new-awakened sense;

The other when two souls unite;

And we must count our life from thence: When you loved me, and I loved you, Then both of us were born anew.

Love then to us did new souls give,

And in those souls did plant new powers;

Since when another life we live,

The breath we breathe is his, not ours: Love makes those young, whom age doth chill, And whom he finds young, keeps young still.

Love, like that angel that shall call

Our bodies from the silent grave,

Unto one age doth raise us all,

None too much, none too little have;

Nay, that the difference may be none,

He makes two not alike, but one.

And now since you and I are such,

Tell me what's yours, and what is mine?

Our eyes, our ears, our taste, smell, touch,
Do (like our souls) in one combine:

So by this, I as well may be

Too old for you, as you for me.

A VALEDICTION.

Bid me not go where neither suns nor showers
Do make or cherish flowers;

Where discontented things in sadness lie,
And Nature grieves as I;

When I am parted from those eyes,
From which my better day doth rise,
Though some propitious power
Should plant me in a bower,

Where amongst happy lovers I might see
How showers and sunbeams bring

One everlasting spring,

Nor would those fall, nor these shine forth to me: Nature herself to him is lost,

Who loseth her he honours most.

Then fairest to my parting view display

Your graces all in one full day;

Whose blessed shapes I'll snatch and keep, till when I do return and view agen:

So by this art fancy shall fortune cross,

And lovers live by thinking on their loss.