Part 1 of THE MATCHLESS ORINDA 1. Upon the double murder of King Charles I, in answer to a libelous copy of rhymes by Vavasor Powell. 2. I think not on the state, nor am concerned which way soever the great helm is turned. But as that son whose father's danger nigh did force his native dumbness and untie the fettered organs, so this is a cause that will excuse the breach of nature's laws. 3. Silence were now a sin. Nay, passion now wise men themselves for merit would allow. What noble eye could see, and careless pass, the dying lion kicked by every ass? Has Charles so broke God's laws he must not have a quiet crown, nor yet a quiet grave? 2. Tomes have been sanctuaries. Thieves lie there, secure from all their penalty and fear. Great Charles his double misery was this, unfaithful friends, ignoble enemies. Had any heathen been this prince's foe, he would have wept to see him injured so. His title was his crime, they reasoned good to quarrel at the right they had withstood. 3. He broke God's laws, and therefore he must die. And what shall then become of thee and I? Slander must follow treason. But yet stay. Take not our reason with our king away. 4. Though you have seized upon all our defence, yet do not sequester our common sense. Christ will be king, but I nare understood his subjects built his kingdom up with blood, except their own, or that he would dispense with his commands, though for his own defence.  2. On the numerous access of the English to wait upon the king in Flanders. 3. Hasten, great prince, unto thy British Isles, or all thy subjects will become exiles. To thee they flock, thy presence is their home, as Pompey's camp where Eret moved was Rome. They that asserted thy just cause go hence, to testify their joy and reverence, and those that did not, now, by wonder, taught, go to confess and expiate their fault. 4. So that, if thou dost stay, thy gasping land itself will empty on the Belgic sand, where the affrighted Dutchman does profess he thinks it an invasion, not a dress. As we unmonarched were for want of thee, so till thou come we shall unpeopled be. 5. None but the close fanatic will remain, who by our loyalty his ends will gain, and he, the exhausted land, will quickly find as desolate a place as he designed. For England, though grown old with woes, will see her long denied and sovereign remedy. 6. So when old Jacob could but credit give that his prodigious Joseph still did live, Joseph that was preserved to restore their lives that would have taken his before, it is enough, said he, to Egypt I will go, and see him once, before I die. 3. Orion on a dolphin, to his majesty at his passage into England. 4. Whom does this stately navy bring? Oh, to his great Britain's glorious king. Convey him then ye winds and seas, swift as desire and calm as peace. In your respect let him survey what all his other subjects pay, and prophesy to them again the splendid smoothness of his reign. 5.  Sprung from a father so august, he triumphs in his very dust. In him two miracles we view, his virtue and his safety too. 4. For when compelled by traitors' crimes to breathe and bow in foreign climes, exposed to all the rigid fate that does on withered greatness wait, plots against life and conscience laid, by foes pursued by friends betrayed, then heaven, his secret potent friend, did him from drugs and stabs defend, and what's more yet kept him upright amidst flattering hope and bloody fight. 5. Cromwell his own right never gained, defender of the faith remained, for which his predecessors fought and writ, but none so dearly bought. Never was Prince so much besieged, at home provoked, abroad obliged, nor ever man resisted thus. No, not great Athanasius. 6. No help of friends could or foes spite, to fierce invasion him invite. Revenge to him no pleasure is, he spared their blood, who gaped for his. Blushed any hand, the English crown should fasten on him but their own. As peace and freedom with him went, with him they came from banishment. That he might his dominions win, he with himself did first begin. 7. And that best victory obtained, his kingdom quickly he regained. The lustrous sufferings of this prince did all reduce and all convince. He only lived with such success, that the whole world would fight with less. 8. Assistant kings could but subdue those foes which he can pardon too. He thinks no slaughter-trophies good, nor laurels dipped in subject's blood, but with a sweet, resistless art disarms the hand and wins the heart. 9.  Go, wondrous prince, adorn that throne which birth and merit make your own, and in your mercy brighter shine than in the glories of your line. Find love at home, and abroad fear, and veneration everywhere. 10. The united world will you allow their chief to whom the English bow, and monarchs shall to yours resort as sheba's queen to Judah's court, returning thence constrain it more to wonder, envy, and adore. Discovered Rome will hate your crown, but she shall tremble at your frown. 11. For England shall, ruled and restored by you, the suppliant world protect, or else subdue. 4. On the fair weather just at the coronation, it having rained immediately before and after. So clear a season, and so snatched from storms, shows heaven delights to see what man performs. Well knew the sun, if such a day were dim, it would have been an injury to him. For then a cloud had from his eye concealed the noblest sight that ever he beheld. He therefore checked the invading rains we feared, and in a bright parenthesis appeared. So that we knew not which looked most content, the king, the people, or the firmament. But the solemnity once fully passed, the storm returned with an impetuous haste, and heaven and earth each other to outdo, vied both in cannons and in fireworks too. So Israel passed through the divided flood, while in obedient heaps the ocean stood. But the same sea, the Hebrews once on shore, returned in torrents where it was before. 5. To the queen's majesty on her arrival at Portsmouth, May 14th, 1662.  Whilst your glad subjects with impatience throng to see a blessing they have begged so long, whilst nature, who in compliment to you, kept back till now her wealth and beauty too, hath to attend the luster your eyes bring, sent forth her loved ambassador the spring. Whilst in your praise, fame's echo doth conspire with the soft touches of the sacred lyre, let an obscure muse upon her knees present you with such offerings as these, and you as a divinity adore, so that your mercy may appear the more. Who, though of those you should the best receive, can such imperfect ones as these forgive? Hail, royal beauty, virgin bright and great, who do our hope secure, our joys complete. We cannot reckon what to you we owe, who make him happy, who makes us be so.  So great that he dispenses life and death, and Europe's fate depends upon his breath, for fortune in amends now courts him more than ever she affronted him before, as lovers that of jealousy repent grow troublesome in kind acknowledgment. Who greater courage showed in wooing you than other princes in their battles do, never was Spain so generously defied, where they designed a prey he court sobried, hence they may guess what will his anger prove, when he appeared so brave in making love, and be more wise than to provoke his arms, who can submit to nothing but your charms, and till they give him leisure to subdue, his enemies must owe their peace to you. Whilst he and you mixing illustrious rays, as much above our wishes as our praise, such heroes shall produce as even they, without regret or blushes, shall obey. 6. To the Queen Mother's Majesty. January 1st, 1661 You justly may forsake a land which you have found so guilty and so fatal, too. Fortune, injurious to your innocence, shot all her poisoned arrows here, or hence. 2. It was here bold rebels once your life pursued, to whom it was treason only to be rude.  3. For here, oh here the royal martyr-blood, whose cause and heart must be divine and high, that having you could be content to die, here they perloined what we to you did owe, and paid you in variety of woe. 4. Yet all those billows in your breast did meet a heart so firm, so loyal, and so sweet, that over them you greater conquest made than your immortal father ever had. 5. For we may read in story of some few that fought like him, none that endured like you. Till sorrow blushed to act what traitors meant, and providence itself did first repent. 6. But as our active, so our passive ill, hath made your share to be the sufferers still, as from our mischiefs all your troubles grew, it is your sad right to suffer for them, too. 7. Else our great Charles had not been hence so long, nor the illustrious Gloucester died so young, nor had we lost a princess all confessed to be the greatest, wisest, and the best, who leaving colder parts but less unkind, for it was here she set and there she shined, did to a most ungrateful climate come to make a visit, and to find a tomb. 8. So that we should as much your smile despair, as of your stay in this unpurged air. But that your mercy doth exceed our crimes as much as your example former times, and will forgive our offerings, though the flame does tremble still betwixt regret and shame, for we have justly suffered more than you, by the sad guilt of all your sufferings, too. 9. As you the great idea have been seen of either fortune, and in both the queen, live still triumphant by the noblest wars, and justify your reconciled stars.  7. Upon the Princess Royal her return into England. 8. Welcome, sure pledge of reconciled powers, if kingdoms have good angels you are ours, for they'll ones checked by your bright influence, could never strike till you were hurried hence. But then, as streams withstood more rapid grow, war and confusion soon did overflow, such and so many sorrows did succeed, as it would be a new one now to read. 9.  Nature and fortune have so curious been, to give you worth and seen to show it in.  10. Oh wondrous prodigy! Oh race divine! Who owe more to your actions than your line! Your lives exalt your father's deathless name, the blush of England and the boast of fame. Pardon great madam this unfit address, which doth profane the glory toward confess. Our crimes have banished us from you, and we were more removed by them than by the sea. 11. Nor is it known whether we wronged you more when we rebelled, or now we do adore. 12. But what guilt found devotion cannot miss, and you who pardoned that will pardon this. Your blessed return tells us our storms are ceased, our faults forgiven, and our stars appeased. Your mercy which no malice could destroy shall first bestow, and then instruct our joy. 13. For bounteous heaven hath in your highness sent our great example, bliss and ornament. 8. On the death of the illustrious duke of Gloucester. Great Gloucester is dead! And yet in this we must confess that angry heaven is wise and just. We have so long and yet so ill endured the woes which our offenses had procured, that this new stroke would all our strength destroy, had we not known an interval of joy. And yet perhaps this stroke had been excused if we this interval had not abused. But our ingratitude and discontent deserved to know our mercies were beglent, and those complaints heaven in this rigid fate doth first chastise and then legitimate. By this it our divisions does reprove, and makes us join in grief if not in love. For, glorious youth, all parties do agree, as in admiring so lamenting thee, the sovereigns, subjects, foreigners delight, thou wert the universal favourite. Not Rome's beloved and brave Marcellus fell so much a darling or a miracle. Though built of richest blood and finest earth, thou hathst a heart more noble than thy birth, which by the afflictive changes thou didst know, thou hathst but too much cause and time to show.  Nay, that loose tyrant whom no bound confined, whom neither laws nor oath nor shame could bind, although his soul was then his look more grim, yet thy brave innocence half softened him. And he, that worth wherein thy soul was dressed, by his ill-favoured clemency confessed, lessening the ill which he could not repent, he called that travel which was banishment. Escaped from him thy trials were increased, the scene was changed, but not the danger ceased. Thou from rough guardians to seducers gone, those made thy temper, these thy judgment known, whilst thou the noblest champion worked for truth, whether we view thy courage or thy youth. If defoil nature and ambition claims greater reward than to encounter flames, all that shall know the story must allow a martyr's crown prepared for thy brow. But yet thou werest suspended from thy throne, till thy great brother had regained his own, who though the bravest sufferer, yet even he could not at once have missed his crown and thee. But as commissioned angels make no stay, but having done their errand go their way, so thy part done, not thy restored state, the future splendor which did for thee wait, nor that thy prince and country must mourn for such a support and such a counsellor, could longer keep thee from that bliss, whence thou looks'd down with pity on earth's monarchs now, where thy capacious soul may quench her thirst, and younger brothers may inherit first. While on our king heaven does this care express, to make his comforts safe he makes them less, for this successful heathens used to say, it is too much, great gods, send some lay. Nine. To her royal highness, the Duchess of York, on her commanding me to send her some things that I had written. To you whose dignity strikes us with awe, and whose far greater judgment gives us law, your mind being more transcendent than your state, for while but knees to this, heart bow to that. These humble papers never durst come near, had not your powerful word bid them appear. In such majesty such sweetness dwells, has in one act obliges and compels. None can dispute commands about saved by you, watch how my fears then and confusion do. They must resign, and by their just pretence some value set on my obedience, for in religious duties, to confess, the most implicit are accepted best. If on that score your highness will excuse this blushing tribute of an artless muse, she may, encouraged by your least regard, which first can worth create and then reward, at modest distance with improved strains that mercy celebrate which now she gains. But should you that severe justice use, which these two prompt approaches may produce, as the swift hind which hath escaped long believes a vulgar shot would be a wrong, but wounded by a prince falls without shame, and what in life she loses gains in fame. So if a ray from you chance to be sent, which to consume and not to warm is meant, my trembling muse at least more nobly dies, and falls by that a truer sacrifice. 10. On the Death of the Queen of Bohemia Although the most do with a vicious heat only adore the living and the great, yet this queen's merits fame so far hath spread, that she rules still, though dispossessed, and dead. For losing one, two other crowns remained. Over all hearts and her own griefs she reigned. Two thrones so splendid as to none are less, but to that third which she does now possess. Her heart and birth fortune so well did know, that seeking her own fame in such a foe, she dressed the spacious theater for the fight, and the admiring world called to the sight. An army, then, of mighty sorrows brought, who all against this single virtue fought, and sometimes stratagems, and sometimes blows, to her heroic soul they did oppose. But at her feet their vain attempts did fall, and she discovered and subdued them all. Till fortune, weary of her malice, grew, became her captive and her trophy, too. And by too late a tribute, begged of Bean, admitted subject to so brave a queen. But as some hero, who afield hath won, viewing the things he had so greatly done, when by his spirit's flight he finds that he, with his own life, must buy his victory, he makes the slaughtered heap that next him lies, his funeral pile, and then in triumph dies. So fell this royal dame, with conquering spent, and left in every breast her monument, wherein so high an epitaph is writ, as I must never dare to copy it. But that bright angel which did on her weight, in fifty years' contention with her fate, and in that office did with wonder see how great her troubles, how much greater she, how she maintained her best prerogative in keeping still the power to forgive, how high she did in her devotion go, and how her condescension stooped as low, with how much glory she had ever been, a daughter, sister, mother, wife, and queen, will sure employ some deathless muse to tell our children this instructive miracle, who may her sad, illustrious life recite, and after all her wrongs may do her right. Poems by the most deservedly admired Mrs. Catherine Phillips, The Matchless Orinda. Part II. Poems 11 to 20 11. On the 3rd of September 1651 As when the glorious magazine of light approaches to his canopy of night, he with new splendour clothes his dying rays, and double brightness to his beams conveys. And, as to brave and check his ending fate, puts on his highest looks in slowest estate, dressed in such terror as to make us all be anti-Persians and adore his fall, then quits the world depriving it of day, while every herb and plant does droop away. So when our gasping English royalty perceived her period was now drawing nigh, she summons her whole strength to give one blow, to raise herself, or pull down others too. Big with revenge and hope she now spake more of terror than in many months before, and musters her attendance, or to save her from, or else attend her to the grave.  Unhappy kings, who cannot keep a throne, nor be so fortunate to fall alone. Their weight sinks others, Pompey could not fly, but half the world must bear him company. And captive Sampson could not life conclude, unless attended with a multitude. Who'd trust a greatness now, whose food is air, whose ruin's sudden, and whose end despair? Who would presume upon his glorious birth, or quarrel for a spacious share of earth, that siege such diadems becomes so cheap, and heroes tumble in a common heap? O give me virtue, then, which sums up all, and firmly stands when crowns and sceptres fall. Twelve. To the noble Palamon, on his incomparable discourse of friendship. We had been still undone, rapt in disguise, secure, not happy, cunning, and not wise. War had been our design, interest, our trade. We had not dwelt in safety, but in shade. Had thou not hung our light more welcome far, than wandering seamen think the northern star. To show, lest we our happiness should miss, it is placed in friendship, men's and angels' bliss. Friendship, which had a scorn or mask been made, and still had been derided or betrayed, at which the great physician still had laughed, the soldier stormed and the gallant scoffed, or worn not as a passion, but a plot, at first pretended and at last forgot. Had thou not been her great deliverer, at first discovered, and then rescued her, and raising what rude malice had flung down, unveiled her face, and then restored her crown, by so august an action to convince, it is greater to support than be a prince. O, for a voice which loud as thunder were, that all mankind thy conquering truths might hear. Sure the litigious as amazed would stand, as fairy knights touched with campinas wand'd, drawn by thy softer and yet stronger charms. Nations and armies would lay down their arms. And what more honour can on thee be hurled, than to protect a virtue save a world? But while great friendship thou hast copied out, thou hast drawn thyself so well, that we may doubt which most appears thy candor or thy art, whether we owe more to thy brain or heart. But this we know without thy own consent, thou hast raised thyself a glorious monument, temples and statues time will eat away, and tombs like their inhabitants decay, but their palamon lives, and so he must, when marbles crumble to forgotten dust. Thirteen. To the right honourable Alice, Countess of Carbury, at her coming into Wales. As when the first day dawned, man's greedy eye was apt to dwell on the bright prodigy, till he might careless of his organ grow, and let his wonder prove his danger, too. So when our country, which was deemed to be close mourner in its own obscurity, and in neglected chaos so long lay, was rescued by your beams into a day, like men into a sudden lustre brought, we justly feared to gaze more than we ought. From hence it is you lose most of your right, since none can pay it, nor durst do it if they might. Perfection's misery tis that art and wit, while they would honour, do but injure it. But as the deity slights our expense, and loves devotion more than eloquence. So tis our confidence you are divine, makes our sat distance, thus approach your shrine, and thus secured to you who need no art, I that speak least my wit may speak my heart. Then much above all zealous injury receive this tribute of our shades from me, while your great splendours like eternal spring, to these sad groves such a refreshment bring, that the despised country may be grown, and justly, too, the envy of the town. That so, when all mankind at length have lost the virtuous grandeur which they once did boast, of you like pilgrims they may here obtain, worth to recruit the dying world again. The fleet I traffic with fears no such harms, sails in my sight, and anchors in my arms. Each new and unperceived grace, discovered in that mind and face, each motion's smile and look from thee, brings pearls and o'er her gold to me. Thus far, Sir Edward Derring. Sir, to be noble when twas voted down, to dare be good though a whole age should frown, to live within, and from that even state see all the underworld stoop to its fate, to give the law of honour and dispense all that is handsome, great and worthy thence, are things at once your practice and your end, and which I dare admire but not commend. But since to oblige the world is your delight, you must descend within our reach and sight, for so divinity must take disguise, lest mortals perish with the bright surprise, and thus your muse which can enough reward all action she vouchsafes but to regard and honours gives than kings more permanent above the reach of acts of parliament, may suffer an acknowledgment from me for having thence received eternity. My thoughts with such advantage you express I hardly know them in this charming dress, and had I more unkindness from my friend than my demerits ere could apprehend, were the fleet courted with this gale of wind, I might be sure a rich return to find. So when the shepherd of his nymph complained, Apollo in his shape his mistress gained, she might have scorned the swain and found excuse, but could not his great orator refuse. But for Rosania's interest I should fear it would be hard to obtain your pardon here, but your first goodness will, I know, allow that what was bounty then is mercy now.   Fifteen. To Mr. Henry Laws. Nature, which is the vast creation's soul, that steady curious agent in the whole, the art of heaven, the order of this frame, is only number in another name. For as some king conquering what was his own, hath choice of several titles to his crown, so harmony on this score now, that then, yet still, is all that takes and governs men. Beauty is but composure, and we find content is but the concord of the mind. Friendship the unison of well-tuned hearts, honour the chorus of the noblest parts, and all the world on which we can reflect music to the ear or to the intellect. If then each man a little world must be, how many worlds are copied out in thee, who art so richly formid, so complete, to epitomize all that is good and great, whose stars this brave advantage did impart thy natures as harmonious as thy heart. Thou dust above the poets praises live, who fetch from thee the turnity they give, and as true reason triumphs over sense, yet is subjected to intelligence. So poets on the lower world look down, but Laws on them, his height is all his own, for like divinity itself, his lyre rewards the wit it did at first inspire, and thus by double right poets allow, his and their laurel should adorn his brow. Live then, great soul of nature, to assuage the savage dullness of this sullen age. Charm us to sense, for though experience fail and reason too, thy numbers may prevail.  Be it thy care our age to new create, what built a world may sure repair a state. 16. A sea voyage from Tenby to Bristol, begun September 5th, 1652, sent from Bristol to Lucacia, September 8th, 1652. Hoy's up the sale, cried they who understand no word that carries kindness for the land. Such sons of clamour that I wonder not they love the sea, whom sure some storm begot. Had he who doubted motion these men seen or heard their tongues, he had convinced it being. For had our bark moved half as fast as they, we had not need cast anchor by the way. One of the rest pretending to more wit some small Italian spoke, but murdered it. For I, thanks to Sabura's letters, knew how to distinguish tricks the false and true. But to pose these as mad a thing would be, as tis to contradict a presbytery. Tis Spanish, though, quoth I, I in what you please, for him that spoke it might be bread and cheese. So softly moves the bark which none controls as are the meetings of agreeing souls, and the moon-beams did on the water play as if at midnight it would create a day. The amorous wave that shared in such dispense expressed at once delight and reverence, such trepidation we in lovers spy under the oppression of a mistress's eye. But then the wind so high did rise and roar, some vowed they'd never trust the traitor more. Behold the fate that all our glory sweep, writ in the dangerous wonders of the deep, and yet behold man's easy-falling moor, how soon we curse what erst we did adore. Sure, he that first himself did thus convey had some strong passion that he would obey. The bark wrought hard but found it was in vain to make its party good against the main, tossed and retreated, till at last we see she must be fast if ere she should be free. We gravely anchorcast and patiently lie prisoners to the weather's cruelty. We had nor wind nor tide nor ought but grief till a kind spring tide was our first relief. Then we float merrily, forgetting quite the sad confinement of the stormy night. ere we had lost those thoughts we ran aground, and then how vain to be secure we found. Now they were all surprised. Well, if we must, yet none shall say that dust is gone to dust. But we are off now, and the civil tide assisted us the tempest to outright. But what most pleased my mind upon the way was the ship's posture that in harbour lay, which to a rocky grove so close were fixed, that the tree's branches with the tackling mixed, one would have thought it was, as then it stood, a growing navy or a floating wood. But I have done it last, and do confess my voyage taught me so much tediousness. In short, the heavens must need's propitious be, because Lucacia was concerned in me. 17. Friendship's mystery to my dearest Lucacia Come, my Lucacia, since we see that miracles men's faith do move by wonder and by prodigy to the dull, angry world let's prove there is a religion in our love. For though we were designed to agree, that fate no liberty destroys, but our election is as free as angels, who with greedy choice are yet determined to their joys. Our hearts are doubled by the loss, here mixture is addition grown, we both diffuse and both engross, and we whose minds are so much one, never yet ever are alone. We court our own captivity, then thrones more great and innocent, to where banishment to be set free since we wear fetters whose intent not bondage is but ornament. Divided joys are tedious found, and griefs united easier grow. We are ourselves but by rebound, and all our titles shuffled so, both princes, and both subjects too. Our hearts are mutual victims laid, while they, such power in friendship lies, are altars, priests, and offerings made, and each heart which thus kindly dies, grows deathless by the sacrifice. 18. CONTENT TO MY DEAREST LUCASIA Content, the false world's best disguise, the search and faction of the wise, is so abstruse and hid in night, that like that fairy-red cross-night who treacherous falsehood for clear truth had got, men think they have it when they have it not. For courts content would gladly own, but she ne'er dwelt about a throne, and to be flattered rich and great are things which do men's senses cheat. But grave experience long since this did see, ambition and content would ne'er agree. Some vainer would content expect from what their bright outsides reflect, but sure content is more divine than to be digged from rock or mine, and they that know her beauties will confess she needs no luster from a glittering dress. In mirth some place her, but she scorns the assistance of such crackling thorns, nor owes herself to such thin sport, that is so sharp and yet so short, and painters tell us they the same stroke's place to make a laughing and a weeping face. Others there are that place content in liberty from government, but whom so where passions deprive, though free from shackles, he's a slave. Content and bondage differ only then, when we are chained by vices, not by men. Some think the camp content does know, and that she sits the victor's brow, but in his laurel there is seen often a cypress brow between, nor will content herself in that place give, where noise and tumult and destruction live. But yet the most discreet believe the schools this jewel do receive, and thus far strew without dispute knowledge is still the sweetest fruit. But whilst men seek for truth they lose their peace, and who heaps knowledge sorrow doth increase. But now some sullen hermit smiles, and thinks he all the world beguiles, and that his cell and dish contain what all mankind wish for in vain. But yet his pleasures followed with a groan, for man was never born to be alone. Content herself best comprehends betwixt two souls, and they two friends, whose either joys in both are fixed, and multiplied by being mixed, whose minds and interests are so the same their griefs when once imparted lose that name. These far removed from all bold noise, and, what is worse, all hollow joys, who never had a mean design, whose flame is serious and divine, and calm and even must contented be, for they've both union and society. Then, my Lucacia, we who have whatever love can give or crave, who can, with pitying scorn, survey the trifles which the most betray, with innocence and perfect friendship fired, by virtue joined and by our choice retired. Whose mirrors are the crystal brooks, or else each other's hearts and looks, who cannot wish for other things than privacy and friendship brings, whose thoughts and persons changed and mixed are one, enjoy content, or else the world hath none. Nineteen. A dialogue of absence, twix Lucacia and Orinda, set by Mr. Henry Laws. Lucacia. Say, my Orinda, why so sad? Orinda, absence from thee doth tear my heart, which since with thine at union had, each parting splits. Lucacia, and can we part? Orinda, our bodies must. Lucacia, but never we, our souls without the help of sense, by ways more noble and more free, can meet and hold intelligence. Orinda, and yet those souls, when first they met, looked out at windows through the eyes. Lucacia, but soon did such acquaintance get, nor fate nor time, can them surprise. Orinda. Absence will rob us of that bliss, to which this friendship title brings. Loves, fruits, and joys are made by this, useless as crowns to captive kings. Lucacia. Friendships is science, and we know their contemplations most employed. Orinda. Religions so, but practice too, and both by niceties destroyed. Lucacia. But who ne'er parts can never meet, and so that happiness were lost? Orinda. Thus pain and death are sadly sweet, since health and heaven such price must cost. Corus. But we shall come, where no routine shall sever, and there will meet, and part no more, for ever. Twenty. To my dear sister, Mrs. C.P., on her marriage. We will not, like those men, our offerings pay, who crown the cup, then think they crown the day. We make no garlands, nor an altar build, which help not joy, but ostentation yield. Where mirth is justly grounded, these wild toys are but a troublesome and empty noise. But these shall be my great solemnities. Orinda's wishes for Cassandra's bliss. May her content be as unmixed and pure as my affection, and like that endure. And that strong happiness may she still find, not owing to her fortune, but her mind. May her content and duty be the same, and may she know no grief but in the name. May his and her pleasure and love be so involved and growing, that we may not know who most affection or most peace engrossed, whose love is strongest, or whose bliss is most. May nothing accidental ere appear, but what shall with new bonds their souls endure, and may they count the hours as they pass, by their own joys, and not by sun or glass, while every day like this may sacred prove to friendship, gratitude, and strictest love. CHAPTER III. POEMS XXI. XXI. To Mr. Henry Vaughan, Sillerist, on his poems. Had I adored the multitude, and then scotten antipathy to wit and sense, and hugged that fate and hope the world would grant, it was good affection to be ignorant. Yet the least ray of thy bright fancy scene, I had converted or excuseless been. For each birth of thy muse to after time shall expiate for all this age's crimes. First shines thy amaret, twice crowned by thee, once by thy love, next by thy poetry, where thou the best of unions dust dispense, truth clothed in wit and love and innocence. So that the muddiest lovers may learn there, no fountains can be sweet that are not clear. Their juvenile revived by thee declares how flat men's joys are, and how mean his cares, and generously upraids the world that they should such a value for their ruin-pay. But when thy sacred muse diverts her quill, the landscape to designs of Leon's hill, has nothing else was worthy her or thee, so we admire almost idolatry. What savage breast would not be wrapped to find such jewels and such cabinets enshrined? Thou, filled with joys too great to see or count, descensed from thence like Moses from the mount, and with a candid yet unquestioned awe, restorced the golden age when verse was law. Instructing us, thou so securest thy fame, that nothing can disturb it but my name. Nay, I have hopes that standing so near thine to eluse its dross, and by degrees refine. Live till the disabused world consent, all truths of use or strength or ornament, are with such harmony by thee displayed, as the whole world was first by number made, and from the charming rigor thy muse brings, learn there's no pleasure but in serious things. 22. A retired friendship to Ardelia. Come, my Ardelia, to this bower, where kindly mingling souls awhile, let's innocently spend an hour, and at all serious follies smile. Here is no quarreling for crowns, nor fear of changes in our fate, no trembling at the great one's frowns, nor any slavery of state. Here's no disguise nor treachery, nor any deep concealed design. From blood and plots this place is free, and calm as are those looks of thine. Here let us sit and bless our stars, who did such happy quiet give, as that removed from noise of wars in one another's hearts we live. Why should we entertain a fear? Love cares not how the world is turned, if crowds of dangers should appear, yet friendship can be unconcerned. We wear about us such a charm, no whore can be our offence, for mischief self can do no harm to friendship or to innocence. Let's mark how soon Apollo's beams command the flocks to quit their meat, and not entreat the neighbouring streams to quench their thirst, but cool their heat. In such a scorching age as this, who would not ever seek a shade, deserve their happiness to miss, as having their own peace betrayed? But we, of one another's mind assured, the boisterous world disdain, with quiet souls and unconfined enjoy what princes wish in vain. 23. To Mrs. Mary Karn, when Philaster courted her. As some great conqueror who knows no bounds, but hunting honour in a thousand wounds, pursues his rage and thinks that triumph cheap, that's but attended with the common heap, till his more happy fortune doth afford some royal captive that deserved his sword, and only now is of his laurel proud, thinking his dangerous valour well bestowed.   None will dispute the power of your eyes, that understands Philaster is their prize. Hope not your glory can have new access, for all your future trophies will grow less, and with that homage be you satisfied from him that conquers all the world beside, nor let your rigor now the triumph blot, and lose the honour which your beauty got. Be just and kind unto your peace and fame, in being so to him for they're the same, and live and die at once, if you would be nobly transmitted to posterity.   Thus the religion due unto your shrine shall be as universal, as divine, and that devotion shall this blessing gain, which law and reason do attempt in vain, the world shall join maintaining but one strife, who shall most thank you for Philaster's life. Twenty-four. To Mr. J. B., the noble critander, upon a composition of his which he was not willing to own publicly. As when some injured prince assumes disguise, and strives to make his carriage sympathise, yet hath a great becoming mean and air which speaks him royal spite of all his care. So the issues of thy soul can nare be hid, and the sun's force may be as soon forbid as thine obscured, there is no shade so great through which it will not dart forth light and heat. Thus we discover thee by thy own day, against thy will snatching the cloud away. Now the peace shines, and though we will not say, parents can souls as taper lights convey, yet we must grant thy soul transmitted here in beams almost as lasting and as clear. And that's our highest praise, for but thy mind thy works could never a resemblance find. That mind whose search can nature secret hand at one great stroke discover and command, which cleareth times and things before whose eyes, nor men nor notions, dare put on disguise. And were all authors now as much forgot as prosperous ignorance herself would plot, had we the rich supplies of thy own breast, the knowing world would never miss the rest. Men did before from ignorance take their fame, but learning's self is honoured by thy name. This study is not believed to introduce, of novelties more fit for show than use, but thinks it nobler charity to uphold the credit and the beauty of the old, and with one hand canst easily support learning and law, a temple and a court. This secures me, for as we below valleys from hills, houses from churches know, but to their fight to stand extremely high, these forms will have one flat equality. So from a lower soul I well might fear, a critic censure when surveyed too near, but not from him who placed above the best, lives in a height which levels all the rest. 25. To the excellent Mrs. Anne Owen, upon her receiving the name of Lucacia, and adoption into our society, December 28th, 1651. We are complete, and fate hath now no greater blessing to bestow. Nay, the dull world must now confess, we have all worth, all happiness. Anals of state are trifles to our fame, nowt is made sacred by Lucacia's name. But as though through a burning glass the sun more vigorous doth pass, yet still with general freedom shines, for that contracts but not confines. So though by this her beams are fixed here, yet she diffuses glory everywhere. Her mind is so entirely bright, the splendor would but wound our sight, and must to some disguise submit or we could never worship it, and we by this relation are allowed luster enough to be Lucacia's cloud. Nations will own us now to be a temple of divinity, and pilgrims shall ten ages hence approach our tombs with reverence, may then that time which did such bliss convey be kept by us perpetual holy day. 26. To the truly noble Mrs. Anne Owen, on my first approaches. Madam. As in a triumph conquerors admit their meanest captives to attend on it, who though unworthy have the power confessed and justified the yielding of the rest, so when the busy world in hope to excuse their own surprise your conquests do peruse, and find my name, they will be apt to say your charms were blinded or else thrown away. There is no honour got in gaining me, who am a prize not worth your victory, but this will clear you, that is general, the worst applaud what is admired by all. But I have plot sent, for the way to be secure of fame to all posterity is to obtain the honour I pursue, to tell the world I was subdued by you. And since in you all wonders common are, your votaries may in your virtues share, while you by noble magic worth impart, she that can conquer can reclaim a heart. Of this creation I shall not despair, since for your own sake it concerns your care, for it is more honour than the world should know you made a noble soul than found it so. 27. Lucacia. Not to oblige Lucacia by my voice, to boast my fate or justify my choice is this designed, but pity does engage my pen to rescue the declining age. For since his groan in fashion to be bad, and to be vain or angry, proud or mad, while in their vices only men agree, is thought the only modern gallantry. How would some brave examples check the crimes, and both reproach, and yet reform the times? Nor can morality itself reclaim the apostate world like my Lucacia's name. Lucacia, whose rich soul had it been known in that time the ancients called the Golden One, when innocence and greatness were the same, and men no battles knew but in a game, choosing what nature not what art prefers. Poets were judges, kings, philosophers. Even then from her the wise would copies draw, and she to the infant world had given a law. That souls were made of number could not be an observation, but a prophecy. It meant Lucacia, whose harmonious state the spheres and muses only imitate. But as then music is best understood when every chord's examined and found good, so what another's judgment is, and will, in her is the same even reason still. And as some color various seems, but yet tis but our difference in considering it. So she now light and then does light dispense, but is one shining orb of excellence. And that so piercing when she judgment takes, she doth not search but intuition makes, and her discoveries more easy are than Caesar's conquest in his Pontic War. As bright and vigorous her beams are pure, and in their own rich candor so secure, that had she lived where legends were devised, Rome had been just and she been canonized. Nay, innocence herself less clear must be if innocence be anything but she, for virtue so congenial to her mind that liquid things or friends are less combined, so that in her that sage his wish had seen and virtue's self had personated being. Now as distillate symbols do agree, and in the alembic loose variety, so virtue, though in pieces scattered twas, is by her mind made one rich useful mass. Nor doth discretion put religion down, nor hasty zeal usurp the judgment's crown, wisdom and friendship have one single throne, and make another friendship of their own. Each several piece darts such fierce pleasing rays, poetic lovers would but wrong in praise, all hath proportion, all hath calmliness, and her humility alone excess. Her modesty doth wrong a worth so great, which Calumny herself would nobly retreat, while true to friendship and to nature's trust, to her own merits only she's unjust. But as divinity we best declare by sounds as broken as our notions are, so to acknowledge such vast eminence imperfect wonder is our eloquence. No pen Lucacea's glories can relate, but they admire best who dare imitate. Twenty-eight. Wiston Vault. And why this vault and tomb? Alike we must put off distinction and put on our dust. Nor can the stateliest fabric help to save from the corruptions of a common grave, nor for the resurrection more prepare than if the dust were scattered into air. What then? The ambitions just say some, that we may thus perpetuate our memory. Ah, false vain task of art! Ah, poor weak man! Whose monument does more than's merit can, who by his friends best care and loves abused, and in his very epitaph accused? For did they not suspect his name would fall, there would not need an epitaph at all. But after death, too, I would be alive, and shall, if my Lucacea do, survive. I quit these pumps of death, and am content, having her heart to be my monument. Though near stone to me, till stone for me prove, by the peculiar miracles of love, there I'll inscription have which no tomb gives, not here or in the lies, but here she lives. Twenty-nine. Friendship in emblem or the seal. To my dearest Lucacea. The hearts thus intermixed speak, a love that no bold shock can break. For joined and growing both in one, none can be disturbed alone. That means a mutual knowledge, too, for what is't either heart can do, which by its panting sentinel it does not do the other tell? That friendship heart so much refines, it nothing but itself designs. The hearts are free from lower ends, for each point to the other tens. They flamed his true, and several ways, but still those flames do so much raise, that while to either they incline, they yet are noble and divine. From smoke or hurt those flames are free, from grossness or mortality. The heart, like Moses bush presumed, warmed and enlightened, not consumed. The compasses that stand above express this great immortal love, for friends like them can prove this true, they are, and yet they are not, too. And in their posture is expressed, friendship's exalted interest. Each follows where the other leans, and what each does, this other means. And as when one foot doth stand fast, and other circles seek to cast, the steady part does regulate and make the wanderer's motion straight. So friends are only two in this, to reclaim each other when they miss, for whosoever will grossly fall can never be a friend at all. And as that useful instrument for even lines was ever meant, so friendship from good angels springs, to teach the world heroic things. As these are found out in design to rule and measure every line, so friendship governs actions best, prescribing unto all the rest. And as in nature nothing's set, so just as lines in number met, so compass for these being made, do friendship's harmony persuade. And like to them, so friends may own, extension not division, their points like bodies separate, but heads like souls knows no such fate. And as each part so well as knit, that their embraces ever fit, so friends are such by destiny, and no third can the place supply. There needs no motto to the seal, but that we may the mind reveal to the dull eye, it was thought fit that friendship only should be writ. But as there are degrees of bliss, so there's no friendship meant by this, but such as will transmit to fame Lucacia and Orinda's name. 30. In memory of F.P., who died at Acton on the twenty-fourth of May 1660, at twelve-and-a-half of age.  But sorrow is no muse, and does confess, that it least can what it would most express. Yet that I may some bounds to grief allow, I'll try if I can weep in numbers now. Ah, beauteous blossom, too untimely dead! Wither, ah, wither is thy sweetness fled! Where are the charms that always did arise from the prevailing language of thy eyes? Where is thy beauteous and lovely mean, and all the wonders that in thee were seen? Alas!  But so the bankrupt sitting on the brim of those fierce billows which had ruined him, begs for his lost estate, and does complain to the inexorable floods in vain! As well we may inquire when roses die, to what retirement their sweet odours fly! Whither their virtues and their blushes haste, when the short triumph of their life is past, were call their perishing beauties back with tears, as add one moment to thy finished years? No. Thou art gone, and thy presaging mind so thriftily thy early hours designed, that hasty death was baffled in his pride, since nothing of thee but thy body died. Thy soul was up be times, and so concerned to grasp all excellence that could be learned, that finding nothing fill her thirsting here to the spring-head she went to quench it there, and so prepared that being freed from sin she quickly might become a cherubin. Thou wert all soul, and through thy eyes it shined, ashamed and angry to be so confined, it longed to be uncaged, and thither flown where it might know as clearly as it was known. In these vast hopes we might thy change have found, but that heaven blinds whom it decrees to wound, for parts so soon at so sublime a pitch, a judgment so mature, fancy so rich, never appear unto thankful men, but as a vision to be hid again. So glorious scenes in masks spectators view, with the short pleasure of an hour or two. But that once past, the ornaments are gone, the lights extinguished, and the curtains drawn. Yet all these gifts were thy less noble part, not was thy head so worthy as thy heart. Where the divine impression shined so clear, as snatched thee hence, and yet endeared thee here, for what indeed did most command our love was both the cause and sign of thy remove. Such fools are we, so fatally we choose, that what we most would keep we soonest lose. The humble greatness of thy pious thought, sweetness, unforced, and bashfulness untaught, the native candour of thine open breast, and all the beams wherein thy worth was dressed, thy wit so bright, so piercing and immense, adorned with wise and lovely innocence, might have foretold thou wert not so complete, that our joy might be as short as great. So the poor swain beholds his ripened corn by some rough wind without a sickle-torn. Never, ah, never let sad parents guess at one remove of future happiness, but reckon children among those passing joys, which hour one gives and the next hour destroys. Alas! we were secure of our content, but find too late that it was only lent, to be a mirror wherein we may see how frail we are, how spotless we should be. But if to thy blessed soul my grief appears, forgive and pity these injurious tears. Impute them to affection's sad excess, which will not yield to nature's tenderness. Since it was through dearest ties and highest trust, continued from thy cradle to thy dust, and so rewarded and confirmed by thine, that woe is me, I thought thee too much mine. But I'll resign, and follow thee as fast as my unhappy minutes will make haste, till when the fresh remembrances of thee shall be my emblems of mortality, for such a loss as this bright soul is not ever to be repaired, or forgot. In memory of that excellent person, Mrs. Mary Lloyd of Bodedrest, in Denbighshire, who died November 13th, 1656, after she came thither from Pembrokeshire. I cannot hold, for though to write were rude, yet to be silent were in gratitude, and folly too, for if posterity should never hear of such an one as thee, and only know this age's brutish fame, they would think virtue nothing but a name. And though far abler pens must her define, yet her adoption hath engaged mine, and I must own where merit shines so clear, to his hard to write, but harder to forbear.  Matched to another good and great as they, who did their country both oblige and sway, behold herself, who had, without dispute, more than both families could contribute. What earthly beauty, grief, and age had broke, her lovely relics, and her offspring spoke. She was, by nature, and her parents' care, a woman long before most others are. But yet that anti-dated season, she improved to virtue, not to liberty, for she was still in either state of life, meek as a virgin, prudent as a wife, and she well knew, although so young and fair, justly to mix obedience, love, and care. Whilst to her children she did still appear so wisely kind, so tenderly severe, that they from her rule and example brought a native honour, which she stamped and taught. Nor can a single penny enough commend so kind a sister, and so clear a friend. A wisdom from above did her secure, which, as it was peaceable, was ever pure, and if well ordered commonwealths must be patterns for every private family, her house, ruled by her hand and by her eye, might be a pattern for a monarchy. Solomon's wisest woman less could do. She built her house, but this preserved hers, too. She was so pious that when she did die, she scarce changed place, I'm sure, not company. Her zeal was primitive and practice, too. She did believe, and pray, and read, and do. A firm and equal soul she had engrossed, just even to those that disobliged her most. She grew to love those wrongs she did receive, forgiving her the power to forgive. Her alms I may admire, but not relate, but her own works shall praise her in the gate.  Scarce for a husband's loss her eyes were dried, and that loss by her children half supplied, when heaven was pleased not these dear props to Ford, but tore most off by sickness or by sword. She, who in them could still their father boast, was a fresh widow every son she lost. Litigious hands did her a right deprive, that after all it was penance to survive. She still these griefs had nobly undergone, which few support at all, but better none. Such a submissive greatness, who can find? A tender heart with so resolved a mind. But she, though sensible, was still the same, of a resided soul, untainted fame, nor were her virtues coarsely set, for she outdid example in civility. To bestow blessings, to oblige, relieve, was all for which she could endure to live. She had a joy higher in doing good, than they to whom the benefit accrued. Though none of honour had a quicker sense, never had woman more of complacence. Yet lost it not in empty forms, but still her nature noble was, her soul gentile, and as in youth she did attract, for she the verger had without the vanity, so she in age was mild and grave to all, was not morose, but was majestical. Thus from all other women she had skill to draw their good, but nothing of their ill. And since she knew the mad tumultuous world saw crowns reversed, temples to ruin hurled, she in retirement chose to shine and burn, as a bright lamp shut in some Roman urn. At last, when spent with sickness, grief, and age, her guardian angel did her death per sage, so that by strong impulse she cheerfully dispensed blessings and went home to die, that so she might, when to that place removed, marry his ashes whom she ever loved. She died, gained a reward, and paid a debt, the son himself did never brighter set. Happy were they that knew her, and her end more happy they that did from her descend. A double blessing they may hope to have, once she conveyed to them, and once she gave. All that are hers are therefore sure to be, blessed by inheritance and legacy.  32. To the truly competent judge of honour, Lucacia, upon a scandalous libel made by J.J. Honour, which differs man from man much more than reason differed him from beasts before, suffers this common fate of all things good, by the blind world to be misunderstood. For as some heathens did their gods confine, while in a bird or beast they made their shrine, deposed their deities to earth, and then offered them rights that were too low for men. So those who most to honour sacrifice, prescribe to her a mean and weak disguise, imprison her to others false applause, and from opinion do receive their laws, while that in constant idle they implore, which in one breath can murder and adore. From hence it is that those who honour court, and place her in a popular report, do prostitute themselves to sordid fate, and from their being oft degenerate, and thus their tenants too are low and bad, as if to her honourable to be mad. Or that their honour had concerned had been, but to conceal not to forbear a sin, but honour is more great and more sublime, above the battery of fate or time. We see in beauty certain heirs are found, which not one grace can make but all compound, honours to the mind as beauty to the sense, the fair result of mixid excellence. As many diamonds together lie and dart one lustre to amaze the eye, so honour is that bright ethereal ray which many stars doth in one light display. But as that beauty were as truly sweet, were there no tongue to praise, no eye to see it, and is the privilege of a native spark to shed a constant splendour in the dark. So honour is its own reward and end, and satisfied within cannot descend to beg the suffrage of a vulgar tongue, which by commending virtue doth it wrong. It is a charter of a noble action, that the performance giveth satisfaction. Other things are below it, for from a clown would any conqueror receive his crown. Tis restless cowardice to be adrudged to an uncertain and unworthy judge, so the chameleon, who lives on air, is of all creatures most inclined to fear. But peaceable reflections on the mind will in a silent shade contentment find. Honour keeps court at home, and doth not fear to be condemned abroad if quitted there. While I have this retreat, tis not the noise of slander, though believed can wrong my joys. There is advantage, and, for gold uncoined had been unuseful not with glory shined, this stamped my innocencey in the oar, which was as much, but not so bright, before. Till an alembic wakes and outward draws, the strength of sweets lie sleeping in their cause. So this gave me an opportunity to feed upon my own integrity, and though their judgment I must still disclaim, who can nor give nor take away of fame, yet I'll appeal unto the knowing few, who dare be just, and rip my heart to you. Thirty-three. To Antonor, on a paper of mine which J. J. threatens to publish to prejudice him. Must then my crimes become thy scandal, too? Why, sure, the devil hath not much to do. The weakness of the other charge is clear, when such a trifle must bring up the rear. But this is mad design, for who before lost his repute upon another's score? My love and life I must confess are thine, but not my errors, they are only mine. And if my faults must be for thine allowed, it will be hard to dissipate the cloud. For Eve's rebellion did not Adam blast, until himself forbidden fruit did taste. Tis possible this magazine of hell, whose name would turn a verse into a spell, whose mischief is congenial to his life, may yet enjoy an honourable wife. Nor let his ill be reckoned as her blame, nor yet my follies blast Antonor's name. But if those lines of punishment could call, lasting and great as this dark lantern's gall, alone I'd court the torments with content to testify that thou art innocent. So if my ink through malice proved a stain, my blood should justly wash it off again. But since that mint of slander could invent to make so dull a rhyme his instrument, let verse revenge the quarrel. But he's worse than wishes, and below a poet's curse, and more than this wit knows not how to give, let him be still himself, and let him live. 34. Rosania shadowed whilst Mrs. Mary Aubrey. If any could, my dear Rosania, hate, they only should her character relate. Truth shined so bright there, that an enemy would be a better orator than I. Love stifles language, and I must confess, I had said more if I had loved it less. Yet the most critical who that face see will nare suspect partiality. Others, by time and by degrees, persuade, but her first looked at every heart invade. She, hath a face so eminently bright, would make a lover of an anchorite, a face where conquest, mixed with modesty, are both completed in divinity. Not her least glance, but sets a heart on fire, and checks it if it should too much aspire. Such is the magic of her looks, the same beam doth both kindle and refine our flame. If she doth smile, no painter ere would take another rule when he would mercy make, and heaven to her such splendour hath allowed, that no one posture can her beauty cloud. For if she frown, none but would fancy then justice descended here to punish men. Her common looks I know not how to call any one grace, they are composed of all. And if we mortals could the doctrine reach, her eyes have language, and her looks do teach. And as in palaces the outmost worst, rooms entertain our wonder at the first, but once within the presence chamber door, we do despise what ere we saw before. So when you with her mind acquaintance get, you'll hardly think upon the cabinet. Her soul, that ray shot from the deity, doth still preserve its native purity, which earth can neither threaten nor lure, nor buy false joys to file it or obscure. The innocence which in her heart doth dwell, angels themselves can only parallel. More gently soft than is an evening shower, and in that sweetness there is couched a power, which scorning pride doth think it very hard that modesty should need so mean a guard. Her honour is protected by her eyes, as the old flaming sword kept paradise. Such constancy of temper, truth, and law guides all her actions that the world may draw from her one soul the noblest precedent of the most safe, wise, virtuous government. And as the highest element is clear from all the tempest which disturbed the air, so she above the world and its rude noise, above our storms a quiet calm enjoys. Transcendent things her noble thoughts sublime, above the faults and trifles of the time. Unlike those gallants which take far less care to have their souls than make their bodies fair, who, sick with too much leisure, time do pass with these two books, pride and a looking-glass, plot to surprise men's hearts their power to try and call that love which is mere vanity. But she, although the greatest murderer, for every glance commits a massacre, yet glories not that slaves her power confess, but wishes that her monarchy were less, and if she love, it is not thrown away, as many do only to spend the day. But hers is serious, and enough alone to make all love become religion. And to her friendship she so faithful is, that tears her only blot and prejudice, for Envy's self could never err see within that soul baiting her love to me. Now, as I must confess the name of friend to her that all the world doth comprehend, is a most wild ambition, so for me to draw her picture is flat lunacy. Oh! I must think the rest, for who can write, or into words confine, what's infinite? 35. To the queen of inconstancy, Regina Collier, in Antwerp. Unworthy, since thou hast decreed thy love and honour both shall bleed, my friendship could not choose to die in better time or company. What thou hast got by this exchange thou wilt perceive when the revenge shall by those treacheries be made, for which our faith thou hast betrayed. 37. When thy idolaters shall be true to themselves and false to thee, thoualt see that in heart merchandise, value, not number, makes the price. 38. Live to that day, my innocence, shall be my friendship's just defence. For this is all the world can find, while thou art noble, I was kind. 39. The desperate game that thou dost play at private ruins cannot stay, the horrid treachery of that face will sure undo its native place. 40. Then let the Frenchman never fear the victory while thou art there, for if sins will call judgements down, thou hast enough to stalk the town. 36. To my excellent Lucacia, on our friendship. 37. I did not live until this time crowned my felicity, when I could say without a crime, I am not thine, but thee. 38. This carcass breathed and walked and slept, so that the world believed there was a soul the motions kept, but they were all deceived. 39. For as a watch by art is wound to motion, such was mine. But never had Orinda found a soul till she found thine, which now inspires cures and supplies, and guides my darkened breast. 40. For thou art all that I can prize, my joy, my life, my rest. 41. No bridegrooms nor crown conquerors' mirth to mine compared can be. They have but pieces of this earth. I've all the world in thee. 42. Then let our flames still light and shine, and no false fear control, as innocent as our design, immortal as our soul. 37. Rosania's private marriage. 40. It was a wise and kind design of fate, that none should this day's glory celebrate. 41. For twer in vain to keep a time which is above the reach of all solemnities, the greatest actions pass without a noise, and tummelt but profane divine joys. 42. Silence with things transcendent nearest suits, the greatest emperors are served by mutes. 43. And as in ancient time the deities to their own priests revealed no mysteries, until they were from all the world retired, and in some cave made fit to be inspired. 44. So when Rosania, who half of them outvide, and with more justice might be deified, who if she had their rights and altars we should hardly think it were idolatry, had found a breast that deserved to be receptacle of her divinity, it was not fit the gazing world should know when she conveyed herself to him, or how. An eagle safely may behold the sun, when weak eyes are with too much light undone. Now, as in oracles were understood, not the priests only, but the common good. So her great soul would not imparted be, but in design of general charity. She now is more diffusive than before, and what men then admired they now adore. For this exchange makes not her power less, but only fit her for the world's address. May then that mind, which if we will admit the universe one soul must sure be it, inform this all, which till she shined out, lay as drowsy men do in a cloudy day, and honour virtue reason so dispense that all may owe them to her influence. And while this age is thus employed, may she scatter new blessings for posterity. I dare not any other wish prefer, for only her bestowing adds to her. And to a soul so in herself complete as would be wronged by any epithet, whose splendours fixed under her chosen sphere, and filled with love and satisfaction there, what can increase the triumph, but to see the world her convert and her history. 38. Injuria, Amesitier. Lovely apostate! What was my offence? Or am I punished for obedience? Must thy strange rigor find as strange a time? The act and season are an equal crime. Of what thy most ingenious scorns could do must I be subject and spectator too? Or were the sufferings and sins too few to be sustained by me performed by you? Unless, with Nero, your uncurbed desire, be to survey the Rome you set on fire. While wounded for and by your power, I at once your martyr and your prospect die. This is my doom, and such a riddling fate as all impossibles doth complicate.  For our twin spirits did so long agree you must undo yourself to ruin me, and like some frantic goddess you're inclined to raise the temple where you are enshrined, and watch the miracle of cruelty kill that which gave you immortality, while glorious friendship, whence your honor springs, lies gasping in the crowd of common things, and I'm so odious that for being kind, doubled, and studied murders are designed. Thy sins, all paradox! For shouldst thou be thyself again, thou wouldst be severe to me? For thy repentance coming now so late would only change and not relieve my fate. So dangerous is the consequence of ill, thy least of crimes is to be cruel still. For of thy smiles I should yet more complain, if I should live to be betrayed again. Live then, fair tyrant, in security, from both my kindness and revenge be free, while I, who to the swains had sung thy fame, and taught each echo to repeat thy name, will now my private sorrow entertain, to rocks and rivers, not to thee complain.  39. To Regenia Collier, on her cruelty to Philaster. Triumphant queen of scorn!  Unjust and cruel! What can be your prize to make one heart a double sacrifice? Where such a genius rigor you do show to break his heart, you break his image, too.  No pride can raise you, or can make him start, since love and honour do enrich his heart. Be wise and good lest when fate will be just, she should or throw those glories in the dust. Rifle your beauties, and you, thus forlorn, make a cheap victim to another's scorn, and in those fetters which you do upbraid yourself a wretched captive may be made. Redeem the poisoned age, let it be seen, there's no such freedom as to serve a queen.  40. Two forlaster on his melancholy for Regina. Give over now thy tears, thou vain and double murderer, for every minute of thy pain wounds both thy self and her. Then leave this dullness, for, tis our belief, thy queen must cure, or deserve, thy grief. And of part four. Part five of The Matchless Orinda. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Recording by Elizabeth Klett. Poems by the most deservedly admired Mrs. Catherine Phillips. The Matchless Orinda. Part five. Poems forty-one to fifty. Forty-one. Philoclea's parting.  When by Razzani's silence I had been the wretchedest martyr any age hath seen. But as when traitors faint upon the rack, tormentors strive to call their spirits back, not out of kindness to preserve their breath, but to increase the torments of their death. So was I raised to this glorious state to make my fall the more unfortunate. But this I know, none ever died before upon a sadder or a nobler's score. Forty-two. To Razzania, now Mrs. Montague, being with her. As men that are with visions graced must have all other thoughts displaced, and by those short descents of light with loss of sense or spirit's flight. So since thou art my happiness, I could not hope the rate was less, and thus the vision which I gain is short to enjoy and hard to attain. Ah, then! what a poor trifle's all that thing which here we pleasure call, since what our very soul's hath cost is hardly got and quickly lost. It is their justice in the fate. For should we dwell in blessed estate, our joys thereby would so in flame we should forget from whence we came. If this so sad a doom can quit me for the follies I commit, let no estrangement on thy part add a new ruin to my heart. When on myself I do reflect I can no smile from thee expect, but if thy kindness hath no plea some freedom grant for charity, else the just world must needs deny our friendship and eternity. This love will nare that title hold, for mine's too hot and thine too cold. Divided rivers lose their name, and so our two unequal flame parted will passion be in me and an indifference in thee. Thy absence I could easier find provided thou art well and kind. Then such a presence as is this made up of snatches of my bliss. So when the earth long gasps for rain, if she at last some few drops gain, she is more parched than at first, that small recruit increased the thirst. 43. To My Lucacia Let dull philosophers inquire no more in nature's womb or causes strive to explore by what strange harmony and course of things each body to the whole attribute brings, what secret unions secret neighbourings make, and of each other how they do partake. These are but low experiments, but he that nature's harmony entire would see must search agreeing souls sit down and view how sweet the mixture is, how full, how true, by what soft touches spirits greet and kiss, and in each other can complete their bliss. A wonder so sublime it will admit no rude spectator to contemplate it. The object will refine, and he that can friendship revere must be a noble man. How much above the common rate of things must they then be from whom this union springs. But what's all this to me, who live to be disprover of my own mortality, and he that knew my unimproved soul would say I meant all friendship to control? But bodies move in time, and so must minds, and though the attempt no easy progress finds, yet quit me not, lest I should desperate grow, and to such friendship add some patience now. O may good heaven, but so much virtue lend, to make me fit to be Lucaceous friend! But all forsake myself, and seek a new self in her breast that's far more rich and true. Thus the poor bee unmarked doth hum and fly, and droned with age would unregarded die, unless some lucky drop of precious gum do bless the insect with an amber tomb. Then glorious in its funeral the bee gets eminence, and gets eternity. 44. On Controversies in Religion Religion, which true policy befriends, designed by God to serve man's noblest ends, is by that old deceiver's subtle play made the chief party in its own decay, and meets that eagle's destiny, whose breast felt the same shaft which his own feathers dressed. For that great enemy of souls perceived, the notion of a deity was weaved, so closely in man's soul. To ruin that he must at once the world depopulate. But as those tyrants who their wills pursue, if they expound old laws need make no new, so he advantage takes of nature's light, and raises that to a bare useless height. Or while we seek for truth, he in the quest mixes a passion or an interest, to make us lose it, that, I know not how, it is not our practice but our quarrel now, as in the moons eclipse some pagans thought their barbarous clamours her deliverance wrought. So we suppose that truth oppressed lies, and needs a rescue by our enmities. But his injustice, and the mind's disease, to think of gaining truth by losing peace. Knowledge and love, if true, do still unite. God's love and knowledge are both infinite. And though indeed truth does delight to lie at some remoteness from a common eye, it is not an thunder or a noise, but in soft whispers and the stiller voice. Why should we then knowledge so rudely treat, making our weapon what was meant our meat? To his ignorance that makes us quarrel so, the soul that's dark will be contracted too. Cameras make a noise, swelling and vain, and soon resolve to their own smoke again. But a true light the spirit doth delay, and robs it of its proud and sullen state. Makes love admired because tis understood, and makes us wise because it makes us good. Tis to a right prospect of things that we owe our uprightness and our charity. For who resists a beam when shining bright is not a sinner of a common height. That states a forfeiture and helps are spent not more a sin than tis a punishment. The soul which sees things in their native frame without opinion's mask or custom's name cannot be clogged to sense, or count that high which hath its estimation from a lie. Means sordid things which by mistake we prize, and absent covet, but enjoy despise. But scorning these hath robbed them of their art, either to swell or to subdue the heart, and learned that generous frame to be above the world in hopes, below it all in love. Touched with divine and inward life doth run, not resting till it hath its centre won. Move steadily until it safe doth lie, in the root of all its immortality. And resting here hath yet activity to grow more like unto the deity, good, universal, wise, and just as he, the same in kind though differing in degree, till at the last tis swallowed up and grown with God, and with the whole creation won. It self so small a part of the whole is lost, and generals have particulars engrossed, that dark contracted personality, like mists before the sun, will from it fly. Then the soul, one shining sphere, at length with true love's wisdom filled and purged strength, beholds her highest good with open face, and like him all the world she can embrace. 45. To the Honoured Lady, E.C. I do not write to you that men may know how much I am honoured that I may do so, nor hope, though I, your rich example, give, to write with more success than I can live, to cure the age, nor think I can be just who only dare to write because I must.  Had I near heard of your illustrious name, nor known the scotch or English ancient fame, yet if your glorious frame did but appear, I could have soon read all your grandeur there. I could have seen in each majestic ray what greatness ancestors could air convey, and in the luster of your eyes alone how near you were lied to the throne, which yet doth lessen you who cannot need those bright advantages which you exceed, for you are such that your descent from kings receives more honour from you than it brings, as much above their glories as our toil, a court to you were but a handsome soil. And if we name the stock on which you grew, it is rather to do right to it than you, for those that would your greatest splendour see must read your soul more than your pedigree, for as the sacred temple had without beauty to feed those eyes that gazed about, and yet had riches, state, and wonder more, for those that stood within the shining door. But in the holy place, the admitted view, luster received an inspiration too.  Religion all her odour sheds on you, who by obeying vindicate her too. For that rich beam of heaven was almost in nice disputes and false pretenses lost, so doubly injured she could scare subsist betwixt the hypocrite and casuist, till you by great example did convince us of her nature and her residence, and chose to show her face and ease her grief less by your arguments than by your life, which, if it should be copied out, would be a solid body of divinity. Your principle and practice light would give what we should do and what we should believe, for the extensive knowledge you profess, you do acquire with more ease than confess. And as by you knowledge has thus obtained to be refined and then to be explained, so in return she useful is to you, in practice and in contemplation too, for by the various suckers she effluent you act with judgment and think with content. Yet those vast parts with such a temper meet, that you can lay them at religion's feet. Nor is it half so bold as it is true that virtue is herself obliged to you. For being dressed in your subduing charm she conquers more than did the Roman arms. We see in you how much that malice lied, that stuck on goodness any sullen pride, and that the harshness some professors wear falls to their own and not religion's share. But your bright sweetness, if it but appear, reclaims the bad and softens the austere. Men talked of honour too, but could not tell what was the secret of that active spell. That beautyous mantle they to divers lent, yet wondered what the mighty nothing meant. Some did confine her to a worthy fame, and some to royal parents gave her name. You having claim unto her either way, by what a king could give, a world could pay, have a more living honour in your breast, which justifies and yet obscures the rest, a principle from fame and pomp untied, so truly high that it despises pride, buying good actions at the dearest rate, looks down on ill with as much scorn as hate. Act things so generous and bravely hard, and in obliging find so much reward, so self-denying great, so firmly just, apt to confer, strict to preserve a trust, that all whose honour would be justified, must by your standards have it stamped and tried. But your perfection heightens others' crimes, and you reproach while you inform the times.  It are so tender when you see a spot, you blush for those who for themselves could not. You are so much above your sex, that we believe your life your greatest courtesy. For women boast they have you while you live, the pattern and a representative, and future mothers, who in childbirth grown, shall wish for daughters knowing you are one. The world hath kings whose crowns are cemented, or by the blood they boast, or that they shed. Yet these great idols of the stooping crew have neither pleasure sound nor honour true. They either fight or play, and power court in trivial anger, or in cruel sport. You, who enobler privilege and joy, for you can save whom they can but destroy, an empire have where different mixtures kiss, your grave not sour, and kind, but not remiss. Such sweetened majesty, such humble state, do love and reverence at once create. Pardon, dear madam, these untaught assays, I can admire more fitly than I can praise. Things so sublime are dimly understood, and you are born so great, and are so good, so much above the honour of your name, and by neglect do so secure your fame. Whose beauty such as captivates the wise, yet only you of all the world despise, that have so vast a knowledge so subdued, religion so adorned, and so pursued, a witch so strong that who would it define, will need one ten times more acute than mine. It ruled so that its vigor managed thus, becomes at once graceful and generous, whose honour has so delicate a sense, who always pardon never give offence, who needing nothing, yet to all are kind, who have so large a heart, so rich a mind, whose friendship stills of the obliging side, and yet so free from tyranny and pride, who do in love like Jonathan descend, and strip yourself to clothe your happy friend, whose kindness and whose modesty is such, to expect so little, and deserve so much, who have such candid worth, such dear concern, where we so much may love and so much learn, whose every wonder though it fills and shines, it never to an ill-access declines. But all are found so sweetly opposite, as are anticians, pieces, shade, and light, that he that would your great description try, though he right well, would be as lost as I, who, of injurious zeal, convicted stand, to draw you with so bold and bad a hand, but that, like other glories, I presume, you will enlighten, where you might consume. 46. Parting with Lucacia. A song. 47. Well, we will do that rigid thing which makes spectators think we part, though absence hath for none a sting, but those who keep each other's heart. And when our sense is dispossessed, our laboring souls will heave and pant, and gasp for one another's breast, since they their conveyances they want. Nay, we have felt the tedious smart of absent friendship, and do know that when we die we can but part, and who knows what we shall do now? Yet I must go, we will submit, and so our own disposers be, for while we nobly suffer it we triumph for necessity. By this we shall be truly great, if having other things or come, to make our victory complete, we can be conquerors at home. Nay, then to meet we may conclude, and all obstructions overthrow, since we are passion have subdued, which is the strongest thing I know. 47. Against Pleasure. Set by Dr. Coleman. There is no such thing as pleasure here. Tis all a perfect cheat, which does but shine and disappear, whose charm is but deceit. The empty bribe of yielding souls which first betrays and then controls. Tis true, it looks at distance fair, but if we do approach the fruit of Sodom will impair and perish at a touch. In being, then, infancy less, and we expect more than possess. For by our pleasures we are cloyed, and so desire is done, or else like rivers they make wide the channel where they run, and either way true bliss destroys, making us narrow, or our joys. We covet pleasure easily, but it not so possess, for many things must make it be, but one may make it less. Nay, were our state as we could choose it, it would be consumed by fear to lose it. What art thou then, thou winged air, more weak and swift than fame, whose next successor is despair, and its attendant shame, the experienced prince than reason had, who said of pleasure, it is mad. 48. A Prayer. Eternal reason, glorious majesty, compared to whom what can be said to be, whose attributes are thee, who art alone cause of all various things, and yet but one, whose essence can no more be searched by man than heaven, thy throne be grasped with a span. Yet if this great creation was designed to several ends spitted for every kind, sure man, the world's epitome, must be formed to the best that is to study thee. And as our dignity is duty too, which is summed up in this to know and do, these calmly rows of creatures spell thy name, whereby we grope to find from whence they came. By thy own chain of causes brought to think, there must be one, then find that highest link. Thus all created excellence we see is a resemblance faint and dark of thee. Such shadows are produced by the moon-beams of trees or houses in the running streams. Yet by impressions born with us we find how good, great, just thou art, how unconfined. Here we are swallowed up and gladly dwell, safely adoring what we cannot tell. All we know is, thou art supremely good, and thus delight to be so understood. A spicy mountain on the universe, on which thy richest odours do disperse. But as the sea to fill a vessel heaves more greedily than any cask receives, besieging round to find some gap in it, which will a new infusion admit. So dost thou covet that thou mayest dispense upon the empty world thy influence? Loves to disperse thyself in kindness. Thus the king of kings waits to be gracious. On this account, O God, enlarge my heart, to entertain what thou wouldst feign in part, nor let that soul by several titles thine and most capacious formed for things divine. So nobly meant, that when it most doth miss, it is in mistaken pantings after bliss. Degrade itself in sordid things delight, or by profaner mixtures lose its right. O that with fixed unbroken thoughts it may admire the light which does obscure the day. And since to his angels work it hath to do, may its composure be like angels too. When shall these clogs of sense and fancy break, that I may hear the God within me speak? When with a silent and retired art shall I with all this empty hurry part? To the still voice above my soul advance, my light and joy placed in his countenance. By whose dispense my soul to such fame brought, may tame each treacherous, fix each scattering thought, with such distinctions all things here behold, and so to separate each dross from gold, that nothing my free soul may satisfy, but to imitate, enjoy, and study thee. 49. To Mrs. Emma, upon absence.  Adam from paradise expelled, just such a wretched being held. Tis not thy love I fear to lose, that will in spite of absence hold, but is the benefit and use is lost, as in imprisoned gold, which though the sum, be nare so great, enriches nothing but conceit. What angry star then governs me, that I must feel a double smart, prisoner to fate, as well as thee, kept from thy face, linked to thy heart? Because my love, all love excels, must my grief have no parallels? Sapless and dead as winter here I now remain, and all I see copies of my wild state appear, but I am their epitome. Love me no more, for I am grown too dead and dull for thee to own. 50. To Mrs. Mary Aubrey. Soul of my soul, my joy, my crown, my friend, a name which all the rest doth comprehend. How happy are we now, whose souls are grown by an incomparable mixture one, whose well acquainted minds are now as near as love, or vows, or friendship can endure. I have no thought but what's to thee revealed, nor thou desire that is from me concealed. Thy heart locks up my secrets richly set, and my breast is thy private cabinet. Thou sheds no tear but what my moisture lent, and if I sigh, it is thy breath is spent. United thus, what horror can appear worthy our sorrow, anger, or our fear? Let the dull world alone to talk and fight, and with their vast ambitions nature fright. Let them despise so innocent of flame, while envy, pride, and faction play their game. But we by love sublime so high shall rise to pity kings and conquerors despise, since we that sacred union have engrossed which they and all the factious world have lost.