Philarete.

It may be so; for if that gentle swain,
Who once by Tavy, on the western plain,*
Would make the song, such life his verse can give,
Then I do know my name might ever live.

Alexis.

But tell me; are our plains and nymphs forgot, And canst thou frolick in thy trouble be?

Philarete.

Can I, Alexis! say'st thou ? Can I not,
That am resolv'd to scorn more misery?

Alexis.

Oh! but that youth's yet green, and young blood hot;
And liberty must needs be sweet to thee;
But now most sweet, whilst every bushy vale,
And grove, and hill, rings of the nightingale.

Methinks, when thou rememberest those sweet lays
Which thou wouldst lead thy shepherdess to hear,
Each evening-tide among the leafy sprays,
The thought of that should make thy freedom dear;
For now, whilst every nymph on holidays
Sports with some jolly lad, and maketh cheer,

*William Brown, the pastoral poet.

Thine sighs for thee, and mew'd up from resort, Will neither play herself, nor see their sport.

Those shepherds that were many a morning wont Unto their boys to leave the tender herd,

And bear thee company when thou didst hunt; Methinks the sport thou hast so gladly shar'd Among those swains should make thee think upon't; For't seems all vain, now, that was once endear'd. It cannot be, since I could make relation

How for less cause thou hast been deep in passion.

Philarete.

'Tis true, my tender heart was ever yet Too capable of such conceits as these:

I never saw that object, but from it

The passions of my love I could encrease.
Those things which move not other men a whit,
I can, and do make use of, if I please:

When I am sad, to sadness I apply

Each bird, and tree, and flower that I pass by.

So, when I will be merry, I as well
Something for mirth from every thing can draw,
From misery, from prisons, nay, from hell;
And as when to my mind grief gives a flaw,
Best comforts do but make my woes more fell:
So when I'm bent to mirth, from Mischief's paw

(Though *ceased upon me) I would something

cull,

That, spite of care, should make my joys more full.

I feel those wants, Alexis! thou dost name,
Which spight of youth's affections I sustain ;
Or else, for what is't I have gotten fame,
And am more known than many an elder swain,
If such desires I had not learn'd to tame,
Since many pipe much better on this plain?
But tune your reeds, and I will in a song
Express my care, and how I take this wrong.

Sonnet.

I THAT erst-while the world's sweet air did draw,
(Grac'd by the fairest ever mortal saw ;)

Now closely pent with walls of ruthless stone,
Consume my days and nights, and all alone.

When I was wont to sing of shepherds' loves,
My walks were fields and downs, and hills and groves;
But now,
alas! so strict is my hard doom,
Fields, downs, hills, groves, and all's but one poor room.

Meaning, I suppose, though malice has done its worst, expended its utmost force, or ceased its rage from impotency to vent it further. The passage is certainly obscure.

Each morn, as soon as day-light did appear,
With nature's music birds would charm mine ear;
Which now, instead of their melodious strains,
Hear rattling shackles, gyves, and bolts, and chains.

But, though that all the world's delight forsake me,
I have a Muse, and she shall music make me;
Whose airy notes, in spite of closest cages,
Shall give content to me and after-ages.

Nor do I pass for all this outward ill,
My heart's the same, and undejected still;
And which is more than some in freedom win,
I have true rest, and peace, and joy within.*

*The same train of ideas runs through the following beautiful Sonnet by Col. Lovelace, written during his confinement in the Gate-House, Westminster, for political reasons, in the year 1642.

To Althea from Prison.

WHEN Love, with unconfined wings,
Hovers within my gates,
And my divine Althea brings

To whisper at my grates;
When I lie tangled in her hair
And fetter'd with her eye,
The birds that wanton in the air
Know no such liberty.

When flowing cups run swiftly round,
With no allaying Thames,

Our careless heads with roses crown'd,

Our hearts with loyal flames;

When thirsty grief in wine we steep,

When healths and drafts go free,

Fishes that tipple in the deep
Know no such liberty.

And then my mind, that spite of prison's free,
Whene'er she pleases, any where can be:

She's in an hour, in France, Rome, Turkey, Spain;
In earth, in hell, in Heaven, and here again.

Yet there's another comfort in my woe:

My cause is spread, and all the world may know My fault's no more but speaking truth and reason; No debt, nor theft, nor murder, rape, nor treason.

Nor shall my foes, with all their might and power, Wipe out their shame, nor yet this fame of our; Which when they find, they shall my fate envy, Till they grow lean, and sick, and mad, and die,

Then though my body here in prison rot,

And my wrong'd Satires seem awhile forgot;
Yet when both fame and life hath left those men,
My verse and I'll revive, and live again.

When, linnet-like, confined, I
With shriller note shall sing
The mercy, sweetness, majesty,
And glories of my King;

When I shall voice aloud, how good

He is, how great should be,

Th' enlarged winds that curl the flood
Know no such liberty.

Stone walls do not a prison make
Nor iron bars a cage:

Minds innocent and quiet take
That for an hermitage.
If I have freedom in my love,
And in my soul am free,
Angels alone, that soar above,
Enjoy such liberty.