The Penguin Book of English Verse

by Paul Keegan

  Jewels more rich than Ormus show’s.

  He makes the Figs our mouths to meet;

  And throws the Melons at our feet.

  But Apples plants of such a price,

  No Tree could ever bear them twice.

  With Cedars, chosen by his hand,

  From Lebanon, he stores the Land.

  And makes the hollow Seas, that roar,

  Proclaime the Ambergris on shoar.

  He cast (of which we rather boast)

  The Gospels Pearl upon our Coast.

  And in these Rocks for us did frame

  A Temple, where to sound his Name.

  Oh let our Voice his Praise exalt,

  Till it arrive at Heavens Vault:

  Which thence (perhaps) rebounding, may

  Eccho beyond the Mexique Bay.

  Thus sung they, in the English boat,

  An holy and a chearful Note,

  And all the way, to guide their Chime,

  With falling Oars they kept the time.

  ANDREW MARVELL To His Coy Mistress

  Had we but World enough, and Time,

  This coyness Lady were no crime.

  We would sit down, and think which way

  To walk, and pass our long Loves Day.

  Thou by the Indian Ganges side

  Should’st Rubies find: I by the Tide

  Of Humber would complain. I would

  Love you ten years before the Flood:

  And you should if you please refuse

  Till the Conversion of the Jews.

  My vegetable Love should grow

  Vaster then Empires, and more slow.

  An hundred years should go to praise

  Thine Eyes, and on thy Forehead Gaze.

  Two hundred to adore each Breast:

  But thirty thousand to the rest.

  An Age at least to every part,

  And the last Age should show your Heart.

  For Lady you deserve this State;

  Nor would I love at lower rate.

  But at my back I alwaies hear

  Times winged Charriot hurrying near:

  And yonder all before us lye

  Desarts of vast Eternity.

  Thy Beauty shall no more be found;

  Nor, in thy marble Vault, shall sound

  My ecchoing Song: then Worms shall try

  That long preserv’d Virginity:

  And your quaint Honour turn to dust;

  And into ashes all my Lust.

  The Grave’s a fine and private place,

  But none I think do there embrace.

  Now therefore, while the youthful glew

  Sits on thy skin like morning dew,

  And while thy willing Soul transpires

  At every pore with instant Fires,

  Now let us sport us while we may;

  And now, like am’rous birds of prey,

  Rather at once our Time devour,

  Than languish in his slow-chapt pow’r.

  Let us roll all our Strength, and all

  Our sweetness, up into one Ball:

  And tear our Pleasures with rough strife,

  Thorough the Iron gates of Life.

  Thus, though we cannot make our Sun

  Stand still, yet we will make him run.

  ANDREW MARVELL The Mower to the Glo-Worms

  Ye living Lamps, by whose dear light

  The Nightingale does sit so late,

  And studying all the Summer-night,

  Her matchless Songs does meditate;

  Ye Country Comets, that portend

  No War, nor Princes funeral,

  Shining unto no higher end

  Then to presage the Grasses fall;

  Ye Glo-worms, whose officious Flame

  To wandring Mowers shows the way,

  That in the Night have lost their aim,

  And after foolish Fires do stray;

  Your courteous Lights in vain you wast,

  Since Juliana here is come,

  For She my Mind hath so displac’d

  That I shall never find my home.

  (written 1651–2)

  ANDREW MARVELL The Mower against Gardens

  Luxurious Man, to bring his Vice in use,

  Did after him the World seduce:

  And from the fields the Flow’rs and Plants allure,

  Where Nature was most plain and pure.

  He first enclos’d within the Gardens square

  A dead and standing pool of Air:

  And a more luscious Earth for them did knead,

  Which stupifi’d them while it fed.

  The Pink grew then as double as his Mind;

  The nutriment did change the kind.

  With strange perfumes he did the Roses taint.

  And Flow’rs themselves were taught to paint.

  The Tulip, white, did for complexion seek;

  And learn’d to interline its cheek:

  Its Onion root they then so high did hold,

  That one was for a Meadow sold.

  Another World was search’d, through Oceans new,

  To find the Marvel of Peru.

  And yet these Rarities might be allow’d,

  To Man, that sov’raign thing and proud;

  Had he not dealt between the Bark and Tree,

  Forbidden mixtures there to see.

  No Plant now knew the Stock from which it came;

  He grafts upon the Wild the Tame:

  That the uncertain and adult’rate fruit

  Might put the Palate in dispute.

  His green Seraglio has its Eunuchs too;

  Lest any Tyrant him out-doe.

  And in the Cherry he does Nature vex,

  To procreate without a Sex.

  ’Tis all enforc’d; the Fountain and the Grot;

  While the sweet Fields do lye forgot:

  Where willing Nature does to all dispence

  A wild and fragrant Innocence:

  And Fauns and Faryes do the Meadows till,

  More by their presence then their skill.

  Their Statues polish’d by some ancient hand,

  May to adorn the Gardens stand:

  But howso’ere the Figures do excel,

  The Gods themselves with us do dwell.

  ANDREW MARVELL The Definition of Love

  My Love is of a birth as rare

  As ’tis for object strange and high:

  It was begotten by despair

  Upon Impossibility.

  Magnanimous Despair alone

  Could show me so divine a thing,

  Where feeble Hope could ne’r have flown

  But vainly flapt its Tinsel Wing.

  And yet I quickly might arrive

  Where my extended Soul is fixt,

  But Fate does Iron wedges drive,

  And alwaies crouds it self betwixt.

  For Fate with jealous Eye does see

  Two perfect Loves; nor lets them close:

  Their union would her ruine be,

  And her Tyrannick pow’r depose.

  And therefore her Decrees of Steel

  Us as the distant Poles have plac’d,

  (Though Loves whole World on us doth wheel)

  Not by themselves to be embrac’d.

  Unless the giddy Heaven fall,

  And Earth some new Convulsion tear;

  And, us to joyn, the World should all

  Be cramp’d into a Planisphere.

  As Lines so Loves oblique may well

  Themselves in every Angle greet:

  But ours so truly paralel,

  Though infinite can never meet.

  Therefore the Love which us doth bind,

  But Fate so enviously debarrs,

  Is the Conjunction of the Mind,

  And Opposition of the Stars.

  ANDREW MARVELL The Garden

  How vainly men themselves amaze

  To win the Palm, the Oke, or Bayes;

  And their uncessant Labours see

  Cro
wn’d from some single Herb or Tree.

  Whose short and narrow verged Shade

  Does prudently their Toyles upbraid;

  While all Flow’rs and all Trees do close

  To weave the Garlands of repose.

  Fair quiet, have I found thee here,

  And Innocence thy Sister dear!

  Mistaken long, I sought you then

  In busie Companies of Men.

  Your sacred Plants, if here below,

  Only among the Plants will grow.

  Society is all but rude,

  To this delicious Solitude.

  No white nor red was ever seen

  So am’rous as this lovely green.

  Fond Lovers, cruel as their Flame,

  Cut in these Trees their Mistress name.

  Little, Alas, they know, or heed,

  How far these Beauties Hers exceed!

  Fair Trees! where s’eer your barkes I wound,

  No Name shall but your own be found.

  When we have run our Passions heat,

  Love hither makes his best retreat.

  The Gods, that mortal Beauty chase,

  Still in a Tree did end their race.

  Apollo hunted Daphne so,

  Only that She might Laurel grow.

  And Pan did after Syrinx speed,

  Not as a Nymph, but for a Reed.

  What wond’rous Life in this I lead!

  Ripe Apples drop about my head;

  The Luscious Clusters of the Vine

  Upon my Mouth do crush their Wine;

  The Nectaren, and curious Peach,

  Into my hands themselves do reach;

  Stumbling on Melons, as I pass,

  Insnar’d with Flow’rs, I fall on Grass.

  Mean while the Mind, from pleasure less,

  Withdraws into its happiness:

  The Mind, that Ocean where each kind

  Does streight its own resemblance find;

  Yet it creates, transcending these,

  Far other Worlds, and other Seas;

  Annihilating all that ’s made

  To a green Thought in a green Shade.

  Here at the Fountains sliding foot,

  Or at some Fruit-trees mossy root,

  Casting the Bodies Vest aside,

  My Soul into the boughs does glide:

  There like a Bird it sits, and sings,

  Then whets, and combs its silver Wings;

  And, till prepar’d for longer flight,

  Waves in its Plumes the various Light.

  Such was that happy Garden-state,

  While Man there walk’d without a Mate:

  After a Place so pure, and sweet,

  What other Help could yet be meet!

  But ’twas beyond a Mortal’s share

  To wander solitary there:

  Two Paradises ’twere in one

  To live in Paradise alone.

  How well the skilful Gardner drew

  Of flow’rs and herbes this Dial new;

  Where from above the milder Sun

  Does through a fragrant Zodiack run;

  And, as it works, th’ industrious Bee

  Computes its time as well as we.

  How could such sweet and wholsome Hours

  Be reckon’d but with herbs and flow’rs!

  (written 1651–2)

  JOHN OLDHAM from An Imitation of Horace, Book I. Satyr IX

  As I was walking in the Mall of late,

  Alone, and musing on I know not what;

  Comes a familiar Fop, whom hardly I

  Knew by his name, and rudely seizes me:

  Dear Sir, I’m mighty glad to meet with you:

  And pray, how have you done this Age, or two?

  ‘Well I thank God (said I) as times are now:

  ‘I wish the same to you. And so past on,

  Hoping with this the Coxcomb would be gone.

  But when I saw I could not thus get free;

  I ask’d, what business else he had with me?

  Sir (answer’d he) if Learning, Parts, or Sence

  Merit your friendship; I have just pretence.

  ‘I honor you (said I) upon that score,

  ‘And shall be glad to serve you to my power.

  Mean time, wild to get loose, I try all ways

  To shake him off: Sometimes I walk apace,

  Sometimes stand still: I frown, I chafe, I fret,

  Shrug, turn my back, as in the Bagnio, sweat:

  And shew all kind of signs to make him guess

  At my impatience and uneasiness.

  ‘Happy the folk in Newgate! (whisper’d I)

  ‘Who, tho in Chains are from this torment free:

  ‘Wou’d I were like rough Manly in the Play,

  ‘To send Impertinents with kicks away!

  He all the while baits me with tedious chat,

  Speaks much about the drought, and how the rate

  Of Hay is rais’d, and what it now goes at:

  Tells me of a new Comet at the Hague,

  Portending God knows what, a Dearth, or Plague:

  Names every Wench, that passes through the Park,

  How much she is allow’d, and who the Spark

  That keeps her: points, who lately got a Clap,

  And who at the Groom-Porters had ill hap

  Three nights ago in play with such a Lord:

  When he observ’d, I minded not a word,

  And did no answer to his trash afford;

  Sir, I perceive you stand on Thorns (said he)

  And fain would part: but, faith, it must not be:

  Come let us take a Bottle. (I cried) ‘No;

  ‘Sir, I am in a Course, and dare not now.

  Then tell me whether you design to go:

  I’ll wait upon you. ‘Oh! Sir, ’tis too far:

  ‘I visit cross the Water: therefore spare

  ‘Your needless trouble. Trouble! Sir, ’tis none:

  ’Tis more by half to leave you here alone.

  I have no present business to attend,

  At least which I’ll not quit for such a Friend:

  Tell me not of the distance: for I vow,

  I’ll cut the Line, double the Cape for you,

  Good faith, I will not leave you: make no words:

  Go you to Lambeth? Is it to my Lords?

  His Steward I most intimately know,

  Have often drunk with his Comptroller too.

  By this I found my wheadle would not pass,

  But rather serv’d my suff’rings to increase: