CLARENCE

Work on sweet love, I am not yet resolved T'exhaust this troubled spring of vanities And nurse of perturbations, my poor life, And therefore since in every man that holds This being deer, there must be some desire Whose power to enjoy his object may so mask The Judging partly that in her radyant eyes His estimation of the world may seem Upright, and worthy, I have chosen love To blind my Reason with his misty hands And make my estimative power believe I have a project worthy to employ What worth so ever my whole man affords: Then fit at rest my Soul, thou now hast found The end of thy infusion, in the eyes Of thy divine Eugenia look for heaven. Thanks gentle friends is your good Lord and mine, gone up to bed yet? My Lord? That were a most unfit division And far above the pitch of my low plumes I am your bold and constant guest my Lord. M Lord, my want of Courtship makes me fear I should be rude, and this my mean estate Me es with such envy, and detraction Such misconstructions, and resolved misdoomes Of my poor worth, that should I be advanced Beyond my unseen lowen S, but one hai e I should be torn in pieces with the Spirits That fly in ill-lungd tempests through the world, Tearing the head of virtue from her shoulders If she but look out of the ground of glory. Betwixt, whom, and me and every worldly fortune There fiights such sour, and Cursed Antipathy So waspi he, and so petulant a Star, That a l things tending to my grace or good Are ravished from their object, as I were A thing created for a wilderness And must not think of any place with men. Not now my Lord, I thank you honest friendship nds Your Lordship might well make that division if you knew the plain song. First because the heart, is the more worthy en trail, being the first that is born, and moves, and the last that moves, and die; and then being the fountain of heat too, for wheresoever our heat does not flow directly from the heart to the other Organs, there, their Actium must of necessity cease, and so without you I ne there would nor could live. I am more then ashamed, to tell you that my Lord. The plain and short truth is (my Lord) because I am all liver, and tournd lover. A las my Lord they are all far out of my aims and only to fit my self a little better to your friend ship, have I given these wilful reigns to my affec tions. Since your Lordship will shorten the length of my follies relation, the woman that I so passionateli love, is no worse Lady then your own Niece, the too worthy Countess Euge In. But my noble Lo. it is almost a prodigy, that I being only a poor Gentleman and far short of that state and wealth that a Lady of her greatnesses in both will expect in her husband. Would to God we might my Lord. Very easily on that side my Lord. I That have studied with world- thoughts the way of heaven, and how rew heaven is reached To know how mighty, and how many are The strange affections of enchanted number How to distinguish all the motions Of the Celestial bodies, and what pour does separate in such form this massy Round: What is his Essence, Efficacies, Beams? Footsteps, and Shadows? what Eternes es is The world, and Time, and Generation? What Soul, the world's Soul is? what the black Springs And unrevealed Original of Things, What their pierce erance what is life and death, And what our Certain Restauration? Am with the stayed heads of this Time employed To watch withal my Nerves a Female shade. What success my Lord? Sing good Horatio, while I sighs and write. According to my master Platos mind The Soul is music, and does therefore joy In accents musical, which he that hates With points of discord is together tied And barks at Reason, Consonant in sense. Divine Eugenia, bears the ular form Of music and of Reason, and presents The Soul exempt from flesh in flesh inflamed, Who must not love his then, that loves his soul? To her I write, my friend, the star e of friends Will needs have my strange lines greet her strange eyes And for his fake isle pour my poor Soul forth In floods of Ink; but did not his kind hand Bar me with violent grace, I wood consume. In the white flames of her impassionate Love E e my harsh lips shood vent the odorous blaze. For I am despera e of all worldly Joys And there was never man so harsh to men, When I am fullest of digested life I seem a liveless Embrion to all Each day racked up in nightlike Funeral. Sing good Horatio, while I sighs and write. That, that it is my Lord, that makes me love. Strange stuff my Lord. He reads comments. Had ever man so true, and noble friend? Or wood men think this sharp world's freezing Air To all true honour and judicial love Wood suffer such a flourishing pine in both To overlook the boxe-trees of this time? When the learned mind hath by impulsion wrought Her eyes cl re fire into a knowing flame. No elemental smoke can darken it Nor Northern cold es nyppe her Daphnean flower, Oh sacred friendship thanks to thy kind power That being retired from all the faithless world Appearest to me in my unworldly friend, And for thine own sake let his noble mind By moving precedent to all his kind (Like joust Deucalion ) of earth's stony bones Repair the world with humane blood and flesh And dying virtue with new life refresh. As thus my Lord, I feel my own minds joy As it is separate from all other powers, And then the mixture of and other soul Ioyn'de in direction to one end, Like it, And thirdly the contentment I enjoy, As we are joined that I shall work that good In such a noble spirit as your niece, Which in my self I feel for absolute; Each good mind doubles his own free content When in and others use they give it vent. A jealous partly of friendship you unfold; For was it ever seen that any dame Wood change of choice a well mixed white and red For bloodless paleness, if she strived to move? Her painting then is to shun motion, But if she mended some defect with it Breeds it more hate then other ornaments; (Which to supply bore nature) Ladies wear? What and absurd thing is it to suppose; (If Nature made us either lame or sick,) We wood not seek for found limbs, or for health By Art the Rector of confused Nature? So in a face if Nature be made lamer Then Art can make it, is it more offence To help her want there then in other limbs? Who can give instance where dams faces lost The privilege their other parts may boast. That was to make up a poor rhyme to Nature. And far from any Judgement it conferred For lightness comes from hearts, and not from looks And if inchastity possess the heart; Not painting does not raze it, nor being clear Does painting spot it, Om e bonum naturaliter pulchrum. For outward fairness bears the divine form, And moves beholders to the Act of love; And that which moves to love is to be wished And eke thing simply to be wished is good. So I conclude mere painting of the face A lawful and a commendable grace Be there diseases of the mind Doctor? And cures for them too? You will have their diseases, griefs? will you not? And do not griefs ever rise out of passion? And do not passion proceed from corporal distempers? But is not the minds-sickness of power to make the body sick? And the bodies ill affections able to infect the mind? Then if there be such a natural commerce of Powers betwixt them, that the ill estate of the one of fends the other, why shood not the medicines for one cure the other? Nay then Doctor, since you cannot make any reasonable Connexion of these two contrarieties the mind and the body, making both subject to passion, wherein you confound the substances of both, I must tell you there is no disease of the mind but one, and hat is Ignorance. Nothing so for it springs naturally out of the blood, nor are we subject to any disease, or sorrow, whose causes or effects simply and natively concern the body, that the mind by any means partaketh, nor are there any passion in the Soul, for where there are no affections, there are no passion: And Affectus your master Gallen refers partly irascents, For illic est anima senti ens ubi sunt affectus: Therefore the Rational Soul can not be there also. We use to say so indeed, and from that use comes the abuse of all knowledge, and her practice, for when the object in question only concerns the state of the body? why shood the soul be sorry or glad for it? if she willingly mix her self, then she is a fool, if of necessity and against her will, A slave, And so, far from that wisdom, and freedom that the Empress of Reason, and and eternal Substance shood comprehend. Know you the Countess Eugonia Sir? Then I perceive you know her well indeed. Alas sir, we do very seldom meet, For her esta e, and mine are so unequal, And then her knowledge passes mine so far That I hold much to sacred a respect, Of his high virtues to let mine attend them. Indeed I do accoun that passion, The very high perfection of my mind, That is excited by her excellence, And therefore willingly, and gladly feel it. For what was spoken of the most chased Queen Of rich Pasiaca may be said of her. Ante to sortem moribus virtutibus Annos, Sex animo, morum No litate Genus. Thanks worthy Doctor, I do amply quite you I prop poor virtue, that am propped my self, And only by one friend in all the world, For virtues only sake I use this wile, Which otherwise I wood despise and scorn, The world should S ke and all the pomp she hugs Close in her heart, in her ambitious gripe Ere I sustain it, if this slenderest joint Moved with the worth that worldlings love so well Had power to save it from the throat of hell Oh madam let me rise that I may kneel, And pay some duty to your sovereign grace. Which is exceeding small to counterfeit, Ladies my heart will break, if it be held Within the verge of this presumptuous chair. Lover y faith my Lord. Thanks worthy Lord.