Lucasta [26]
her rich swelling breasts increase; But how, alas! how may that be, Despising earth, she will love me?
IV. Faine would I be in love with WAR, As my deare just avenging star; But War is lov'd so ev'rywhere, Ev'n he disdaines a lodging here.
V. Thee and thy wounds I would bemoane, Faire thorough-shot RELIGION; But he lives only that kills thee, And who so bindes thy hands, is free.
VI. I would love a PARLIAMENT As a maine prop from Heav'n sent; But ah! who's he, that would be wedded To th' fairest body that's beheaded?
VII. Next would I court my LIBERTY, And then my birth-right, PROPERTY; But can that be, when it is knowne, There's nothing you can call your owne?
VIII. A REFORMATION I would have, As for our griefes a SOV'RAIGNE salve; That is, a cleansing of each wheele Of state, that yet some rust doth feele.
IX. But not a reformation so, As to reforme were to ore'throw, Like watches by unskilfull men Disjoynted, and set ill againe.
X. The PUBLICK FAITH<25.2> I would adore, But she is banke-rupt of her store: Nor how to trust her can I see, For she that couzens all, must me.
XI. Since then none of these can be Fit objects for my love and me; What then remaines, but th' only spring Of all our loves and joyes, the King?
XII. He who, being the whole ball Of day on earth, lends it to all; When seeking to ecclipse his right, Blinded we stand in our owne light.
XIII. And now an universall mist Of error is spread or'e each breast, With such a fury edg'd as is Not found in th' inwards of th' abysse.
XIV. Oh, from thy glorious starry waine Dispense on me one sacred beame, To light me where I soone may see How to serve you, and you trust me!
<25.1> This was written, perhaps, during the poet's confinement in Peterhouse, to which he was committed a prisoner on his return from abroad in 1648. At the date of its composition, there can be little doubt, from expressions in stanzas vi. and xii. that the fortunes of Charles I. were at their lowest ebb, and it may be assigned without much risk of error to the end of 1648.
<25.2> "The publick faith? why 'tis a word of kin, A nephew that dares COZEN any sin; A term of art, great BEHOMOTH'S younger brother, Old MACHAVIEL and half a thousand other; Which, when subscrib'd, writes LEGION, names on truss, ABADDON, BELZEBUB, and INCUBUS." Cleaveland's POEMS, ed. 1669, p. 91.
LUCASTA'S FANNE, WITH A LOOKING-GLASSE IN IT.<26.1>
I. Eastrich!<26.2> thou featherd foole, and easie prey, That larger sailes to thy broad vessell needst; Snakes through thy guttur-neck hisse all the day, Then on thy iron messe at supper feedst.<26.3>
II. O what a glorious transmigration From this to so divine an edifice Hast thou straight made! heere<26.4> from a winged stone Transform'd into a bird of paradice!
III. Now doe thy plumes for hiew and luster vie With th' arch of heav'n that triumphs or'e past wet, And in a rich enamel'd pinion lye With saphyres, amethists and opalls set.
IV. Sometime they wing her side,<26.5> strive to drown The day's eyes piercing beames, whose am'rous heat Sollicites still, 'till with this shield of downe From her brave face his glowing fires are beat.
V. But whilst a plumy curtaine she doth draw, A chrystall mirror sparkles in thy breast, In which her fresh aspect when as she saw, And then her foe<26.6> retired to the west.
VI. Deare engine, that oth' sun got'st me the day, 'Spite of his hot assaults mad'st him retreat! No wind (said she) dare with thee henceforth play But mine own breath to coole the tyrants heat.
VII. My lively shade thou ever shalt retaine In thy inclosed feather-framed
IV. Faine would I be in love with WAR, As my deare just avenging star; But War is lov'd so ev'rywhere, Ev'n he disdaines a lodging here.
V. Thee and thy wounds I would bemoane, Faire thorough-shot RELIGION; But he lives only that kills thee, And who so bindes thy hands, is free.
VI. I would love a PARLIAMENT As a maine prop from Heav'n sent; But ah! who's he, that would be wedded To th' fairest body that's beheaded?
VII. Next would I court my LIBERTY, And then my birth-right, PROPERTY; But can that be, when it is knowne, There's nothing you can call your owne?
VIII. A REFORMATION I would have, As for our griefes a SOV'RAIGNE salve; That is, a cleansing of each wheele Of state, that yet some rust doth feele.
IX. But not a reformation so, As to reforme were to ore'throw, Like watches by unskilfull men Disjoynted, and set ill againe.
X. The PUBLICK FAITH<25.2> I would adore, But she is banke-rupt of her store: Nor how to trust her can I see, For she that couzens all, must me.
XI. Since then none of these can be Fit objects for my love and me; What then remaines, but th' only spring Of all our loves and joyes, the King?
XII. He who, being the whole ball Of day on earth, lends it to all; When seeking to ecclipse his right, Blinded we stand in our owne light.
XIII. And now an universall mist Of error is spread or'e each breast, With such a fury edg'd as is Not found in th' inwards of th' abysse.
XIV. Oh, from thy glorious starry waine Dispense on me one sacred beame, To light me where I soone may see How to serve you, and you trust me!
<25.1> This was written, perhaps, during the poet's confinement in Peterhouse, to which he was committed a prisoner on his return from abroad in 1648. At the date of its composition, there can be little doubt, from expressions in stanzas vi. and xii. that the fortunes of Charles I. were at their lowest ebb, and it may be assigned without much risk of error to the end of 1648.
<25.2> "The publick faith? why 'tis a word of kin, A nephew that dares COZEN any sin; A term of art, great BEHOMOTH'S younger brother, Old MACHAVIEL and half a thousand other; Which, when subscrib'd, writes LEGION, names on truss, ABADDON, BELZEBUB, and INCUBUS." Cleaveland's POEMS, ed. 1669, p. 91.
LUCASTA'S FANNE, WITH A LOOKING-GLASSE IN IT.<26.1>
I. Eastrich!<26.2> thou featherd foole, and easie prey, That larger sailes to thy broad vessell needst; Snakes through thy guttur-neck hisse all the day, Then on thy iron messe at supper feedst.<26.3>
II. O what a glorious transmigration From this to so divine an edifice Hast thou straight made! heere<26.4> from a winged stone Transform'd into a bird of paradice!
III. Now doe thy plumes for hiew and luster vie With th' arch of heav'n that triumphs or'e past wet, And in a rich enamel'd pinion lye With saphyres, amethists and opalls set.
IV. Sometime they wing her side,<26.5>
V. But whilst a plumy curtaine she doth draw, A chrystall mirror sparkles in thy breast, In which her fresh aspect when as she saw, And then her foe<26.6> retired to the west.
VI. Deare engine, that oth' sun got'st me the day, 'Spite of his hot assaults mad'st him retreat! No wind (said she) dare with thee henceforth play But mine own breath to coole the tyrants heat.
VII. My lively shade thou ever shalt retaine In thy inclosed feather-framed