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Haste, haste, to decke the haire,
Of th' only sweetly faire.

V.
See! rosie is her bower,

Her floore is all this flower;
Her bed a rosie nest

By a bed of roses prest.
VI.

But early as she dresses,
Why fly you her bright tresses?

Ah! I have found, I feare;
Because her cheekes are neere.

<19.1> Dr. John Wilson was a native of Feversham in Kent,
a gentleman of Charles the First's chapel, and chamber-

musician to his majesty. For an account of his works,
see Burney's HISTORY OF MUSIC, vol. iii. pp. 399-400,

or Hawkins' HISTORY OF MUSIC, iii. 57, where a portrait
of Wilson, taken from the original painting, will be found.

Wood, author of the FASTI and ATHENAE, says that he was
in his time, "the best at the lute in all England." Herrick,

in his HESPERIDES, 1648, has these lines in reference to
Henry Lawes:--

"Then if thy voice commingle with the string,
I hear in thee the rare Laniere to sing,

OR CURIOUS WILSON."
<19.2> In a MS. copy of the poem contemporary with the author,

now before me, this word is omitted.
LOVE CONQUER'D.

A SONG.
SET BY MR. HENRY LAWES.

I.
The childish god of love did sweare

Thus: By my awfull bow and quiver,
Yon' weeping, kissing, smiling pair,

I'le scatter all their vowes i' th' ayr,
And their knit imbraces shiver.

II.
Up then to th' head with his best art

Full of spite and envy blowne,
At her constantmarble heart,

He drawes his swiftest surest dart,
Which bounded back, and hit his owne.

III.
Now the prince of fires burnes;

Flames in the luster of her eyes;
Triumphant she, refuses, scornes;

He submits, adores and mournes,
And is his votresse sacrifice.

IV.
Foolish boy! resolve me now

What 'tis to sigh and not be heard?
He weeping kneel'd, and made a vow:

The world shall love as yon' fast two;
So on his sing'd wings up he steer'd.

A LOOSE SARABAND.
SET BY MR. HENRY LAWES.

I.
Ah me! the little tyrant theefe!

As once my heart was playing,
He snatcht it up and flew away,

Laughing at all my praying.
II.

Proud of his purchase,<20.1> he surveys
And curiously sounds it,

And though he sees it full of wounds,
Cruel one, still<20.2> he wounds it.

III.
And now this heart is all his sport,

Which as a ball he boundeth
From hand to breast, from breast to lip,

And all its<20.3> rest confoundeth.
IV.

Then as a top he sets it up,
And pitifully whips it;

Sometimes he cloathes it gay and fine,
Then straight againe he strips it.

V.
He cover'd it with false reliefe,<20.4>

Which gloriously show'd it;
And for a morning-cushionet

On's mother he bestow'd it.
VI.

Each day, with her small brazen stings,
A thousand times she rac'd it;

But then at night, bright with her gemmes,
Once neere her breast she plac'd it.

VII.
There warme it gan to throb and bleed;

She knew that smart, and grieved;
At length this poore condemned heart

With these rich drugges repreeved.
VIII.

She washt the wound with a fresh teare,
Which my LUCASTA dropped,

And in the sleave<20.5>-silke of her haire
'Twas hard bound up and wrapped.

IX.
She proab'd it with her constancie,

And found no rancor nigh it;
Only the anger of her eye

Had wrought some proud flesh by it.
X.

Then prest she narde in ev'ry veine,
Which from her kisses trilled;

And with the balme heald all its paine,
That from her hand distilled.

XI.
But yet this heart avoyds me still,

Will not by me be owned;
But's fled to its physitian's breast;

There proudly sits inthroned.
<20.1> Prize. It is not uncommonly used by the early dramatists

in this sense; but the verb TO PURCHASE is more usually found than
the noun.

"Yet having opportunity, he tries,
Gets her goodwill, and with his purchase flies."

Wither's ABUSES STRIPT AND WHIPT, 1613.
<20.2> Here I have hazarded an emendation of the text. In original

we read, CRUELL STILL ON. Lovelace's poems were evidently printed
without the slightest care.

<20.3> Original reads IT'S.
<20.4> Original has BELIEFE.

<<20.5>> Soft, like floss.
ORPHEUS TO WOODS.

SONG.
SET BY MR. CURTES.

Heark! Oh heark! you guilty trees,
In whose gloomy galleries

Was the cruell'st murder done,
That e're yet eclipst the sunne.

Be then henceforth in your twigges
Blasted, e're you sprout to sprigges;

Feele no season of the yeere,
But what shaves off all your haire,

Nor carve any from your wombes
Ought but coffins and their tombes.

ORPHEUS<21.1> TO BEASTS.
SONG.

SET BY MR. CURTES.<21.2>
I.

Here, here, oh here! EURIDICE,
Here was she slaine;

Her soule 'still'd through a veine:
The gods knew lesse

That time divinitie,
Then ev'n, ev'n these

Of brutishnesse.
II.

Oh! could you view the melodie
Of ev'ry grace,

And musick of her face,<21.3>
You'd drop a teare,

Seeing more harmonie
In her bright eye,

Then now you heare.
<21.1> By Orpheus we may perhaps understand Lovelace himself,

and by Euridice, the lady whom he celebrates under the name
of Lucasta. Grainger mentions (BIOG. HIST. ii. 74) a portrait

of Lovelace by Gaywood, in which he is represented as Orpheus.
I have not seen it. The old poets were rather fond of likening

themselves to this legendary personage, or of designating
themselves his poetical children:--

"We that are ORPHEUS' sons, and can inherit
By that great title"--

Davenant's WORKS, 1673, p. 215.
Many other examples might be given. Massinger, in his CITY MADAM,

1658, makes Sir John Frugal introduce a representation of the story
of the Thracian bard at an entertainment given to Luke Frugal.

<21.2> A lutenist. Wood says that after the Restoration he became
gentleman or singing-man of Christ Church, Oxford. He was one of

those musicians who, after the abolition of organs, &c. during the
civil war, met at a private house at Oxford for the purpose of

taking his part in musicalentertainments.
<21.3> "Such was Zuleika; such around her shone

The nameless charms unmark'd by her alone;
The light of love, the purity of grace,

The mind, the music breathing from her face."
Byron's BRIDE OF ABYDOS, canto 1.

(WORKS, ed. 1825, ii. 299.)
DIALOGUE.

LUCASTA, ALEXIS.<22.1>
SET BY MR. JOHN GAMBLE.<22.2>

I.
Lucasta.

TELL me, ALEXIS, what this parting is,
That so like dying is, but is not it?

Alexis.
It is a swounding for a while from blisse,

'Till kind HOW DOE YOU call's us from the fit.
Chorus.

If then the spirits only stray, let mine
Fly to thy bosome, and my soule to thine:

Thus in our native seate we gladly give
Our right for one, where we can better live.

II.
Lu. But ah, this ling'ring, murdring farewel!

Death quickly wounds, and wounding cures the ill.
Alex. It is the glory of a valiant lover,

Still to be dying, still for to recover.
Cho. Soldiers suspected of their courage goe,

That ensignes and their breasts untorne show:


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