LOVEL

We would set our rest up here, Sir, your Heart. How mine host? Humorous Host. But airy also, Not to defraud you of your rights, or trench Vpo'your privileges, or great charter, (For those are every ostler's language now) Say, you were born beneath those smiling stars, Have made you Lord, and owner of the Heart, Of the Light Heart in Barnet; suffer v Who are more Saturnine, enjoy the shade Of your round roof yet. That your son mine host? Pretty boy! Goes he to school? Thou— ommend'st him fitly. And less his manners. Pulchr . Bellè. A fine child! u wou'not partly with him, mine host? I but ask you. To me, to be my Page. Why? Call you that desperate, which by a line Of institution, from our Ancestors, Hath been derived down to us, and received In a succession, for the noblest way Of breeding up our youth, in letters, arms, Fair meine, discourses, civil exercise, And all the blazon of a Gentleman? Where can he learn to vault, to ride, to fence, To move his body gracefuller? to speak His language purer? or to tune his mind, Or manners, more to the harmony of Nature Then, in these nurseries of nobility?— Why do you say so? Or think so enviously? do they not still Learn there, the Centaur's skill, the art of Thrace, To ride? or Pollux my stery, to fence? The Pyrrhick gestures, both to dance, and spring In armour, to be active for the Wars? To study figures, numbers, and proportions, May yield them great in counsels, and the arts Grave Nestor, and the wise Ulysses practised? To make their English sweet upon their tongue! As reverend Chaucer says? Yo'are tart, mine host, and talk above your sea soning, Over what you seem: it should not come, me thinks, Under your cap, this vein of salt, and sharpness! These strikings upon learning, now and then? How long have you, (if your dul guessed may ask it,) Drove this quick trade, of keeping the light-heart, Your Mansion, Palace here, or Hostelry. I easily suspect that: Mine host, your name. S r, and you con feffeit, B that i'your language, treaty, and your bearing. But, It being i'your free will (as 'twas) to choose What parts you would sustain, me thinks, a man Of your sagacity, and clear nostril, should Have made, another choice, then of a place So sordid, as the keeping of and Inn: Where every Jovial Tinker, for his chink, May cry, mine host, to crambe, give us drink; And do not slink, but skinke, or else you stink. Rogu , Baud, and Cheater, call you by the surnames, And known Synonyma of your profession. Why, to find my riddle out. Troth, and I confess, I am loath, mine host, to leave you: your expressions Both take, and hold me. But, in case I stay, I must enjoin you and your whole family To privacy, and to conceal me. For, The secret is, I would not willingly, See, or be seen, to any of this ging, Especially, the Lad . Oh good words, mine host. She is A noble Lady! great in blood! and fortune! Fair! and a wit! but of so bent a phantasy, As she thinks nought a happiness, but to have A multitude of servants! and, to get them, (Though she be very honest) yet she venters Upon these precipices, that would make her Not seem so, to some prying, narrow nature's. We call her, Sir, the Lady Frances Frampul, Daughter and heir to the Lord Frampul. And travel with Young Goose, the Motion-man. And scattered, as i'the great confusion! And takes all lordly ways how to confume it As nobly as she can; if clothes, and feasting, And the authorized means of riot will do it. Fear not, mine host, I am not o'the fellowship. Who know? Why were you seen You will ha'your Rebus still, mine host. So I be pleased, my gentle mistress Prudence? You cannot think me of that course condition, Envy you any thing. I gratulate your honour; And should, with cheer, lay hold on any handle, That could advance it. But for me to think, I can be any rag, or particle O'your Ladies care, more then to fill her list, She being the Lady, that professes still To love no soul, or body, but for ends; Which are her sports: And is not nice to speak this, But does proclaim it, in all companies: Her Ladyship must pardon my weak counsels, And weaker will, if it decline obey her. Yes: I will wait upon her, and the company. There is no life on earth, but being in love! There are no studies, no delights, no business, No intercourse, or trade of sense, or soul, But what is love! I was the laziest creature, The most unprofitable sign of nothing, The veriest drone, and slept away my life Beyond the Dormouse, till I was in love! And, now, I can out-wake the Nightingale, Outwatch and usurer, and out-walke him too, Stalk Like a ghost, that haunted bout a treasure, And all that phant'si'd treasure, it is love! I do not know't my self, Whither it is. But it is Love hath been The hereditary passion of our house, My gentle host, and, as I guess, my friend; The truth is, I have loved this Lady long, And impotently, with desire enough, But no success: for I have still forborn To express it, in my person, to her. I have sent her toys, verses, and Anagram's, Trials of wit, mere trifles she has commended, But knew not whence they came, nor could she guess. I oft have be, too, in her company; And looked upon her, a whole day; admired her; Loved her, and did not tell her so; loved still, Looked still, and loved: and loved, and looked, and sighed; But, as a man neglected, I came of, And unregarded— Oh but Ilou'd the more; and she might read it Best, in my silence, had she been— Oh thereon hangs a history, mine host. Did you ever know, or hear, of the Lord Beaufort, Who served so bravely in France? I was his page, And, ere he died, his friend! I followed him, First, i'the wars; and i'the times of peace, I waited on his studies: which were right. He had no Arthurs, nor no Rosicleer's, No Knights o'the Sun, nor Amadis de Gaul's, Primalions, and Pantagruel's, public Nothings; Abortives of the fabulous, dark cloister, Sent out to poison courts, and infest manners: But great Achilles, Agamemnon's acts, Sage Nestor's counsels, and Ulysses slights, Tydides fortitude, as Homer wrought them In his immortal phantasy, for examples Of the Heroic virtue. Or, as Virgil, That master of the Epic poem, limned Pious Aeneas, his religious Prince, Bearing his aged Parent on his shoulders, Rapt from the flames of Tr y, with his young son. And these he brought to practice, and to use. He gave me first my breeding, I acknowledge, Then showered his bounties on me, Like the Hours, That openhanded fit upon the Clouds, And press the liberality of heaven Down to the laps of thankful men! But then! The trust committed to me, at his death, Was above all! and left so strong a tie On all my powers! as time shall not dissolve! Till it dissolve it self, and bury all! The care of his brave heir, and only son! Who being a virtuous, sweet, young, hopeful Lord, Hath cast his first affections on this Lady. And though I know, and may presume her such, As, out of humour, will return no love; And therefore might indifferently be made The courting-stock, for all to practice on. As she does practice on all us, to scorn: Yet, out of a religion to my charge, And debt professed, I ha'made a self-decree, Near to express my person; though my passion Burn me to cinders. Nay, I am so resolved, as still I'll love though not confess it. I do. Come wench, this suit will serve: dispatch, make ready. It was a great deal with the biggest for me; Which made me leave it off after once wearing. How do's it fit? wilt come together? And welcome. Was there ever kiss That relished thus! or had a sting Like this, Of so much Nectar, but, with Aloës mixed. It had, me thinks, a quintessence of either, But that which was the better, drowned the bitter. How soon it passed away! how unrecovered! The distillation of another soul Was not so sweet! and till I meet again, That kiss, those lips, Like relish, and this taste, Let me turn all, consumption, and, here waste. Which I cannot appr we, and less make use of: Who would be rich to be so soon undone? The beggars best is wealth, he does not know: And, but to show it him, in flames his want: That joy is too too narrow, Would bound a love, so infinite as mine: And being passed, leaves and eternal lose. Who so prodigiously affects a feast, To forfeit health, and appetite, to see it? Or but to taste a spoonful, would forgo All gust of delicacy ever after? But all hours following Years of despair, ages of misery! Nor can so short a happiness, but spring A world of fear, with thought of losing it; Better be never happy, then to feel A lit e of it, and then lose it ever. If one hour could, the other happy make, I should attempt it. Or in the blessed attempt that I might die! Your pleasure. To make my first approaches, then, in love. Excellent Lady, I did not expect To meet and Infidel! much less and Atheist! Here in Love's lists! of so much unbelief! To raise a question of his being— I rather thought, and, with religion, think, Had all the character of love been lost, His lines, dimensions, and whole signature Razed, and defaced, with dull humanity: That both his nature, and his essence might Have found their mighty instauration he e, Here where the confluence of fair, and good, Meets to make up all beauty. For, what else Is Love, but the most noble, pure affection Of what is truly beautiful, and fair? Desire of union with the thing beloved? It is a fable of Plato's, in his Banquet, And uttered, there, by Aristophanes. I meant a definition. For I make The efficient cause, what's beautiful, and fair. The formal cause, the appetite of union. The final cause, the union it self. But larger, if you'll have it, by description, It is a flame, and ardor of the mind, Dead, in the proper corpse, quick in another's: Trans-ferres the Lover into the Loved. The he, or she, that loves, engraves, or stamps the Idea of what they love, first in themselves: Or, Like to glasses, so their minds take in The forms of their beloved, and them reflect, It is the likeness of affections, Is both the parent, and the nurse of love. Love is a spiritual coupling of two souls, So much more excellent, as it least relates Unto the body; circular, eternal; N feigned, or made, but born: And then, so precious, As nought can valve it, but it self. So free, As nothing can command it, but it self. And in it self, so round, and liberal, As where it favours, it bestows it self. But, we must take, and understand this love Along still, as a name of dignity; Not pleasure. True love hath no unworthy thought, no light, Lose, unbecoming appetite, or strain, But fixed, constant, pure, immutable. They are the earthly, lower form oflouers, Are only taken with what strikes the senses! And love by that lose scale. Although I grant, We Like, what's saire and graceful in and object, And (true) would use it, in the all we tend to, Both of our civil, and domestic deeds. In ordering of and army, in our style, Apparel, gesture, building, or what not? All arts, and actions do affect their beauty. But put the case, in travail I may meet Some gorgeous Structure, a brave Frontispice, Shall I stay captive the outer court, Surprised with that, and not advance to know Who dwells there, and inhabiteth the house? There is my friendship to be made, within; With what can love me again: not, with the walls, Doors, windo'es, architrabes, the frieze, and coronice. My end is lost in loving of a face, And eye, lip, nose, hand, foot, or other partly, Whose all is but a statue, if the mind Move not, which only can make the return. The end of love is, to have two made one In will, and in affection, that the minds Be first inoculated, not the bodies. The bodies love is frail, subject to change, And altar still, with it: The minds is firm, One, and the same, proceedeth first, from weighing, And well examining, what is fair, and good; Then, what is Like in reason, fit in manners; That breeds good will: good will desire of union. So knowledge first, begets benevolence, Benevolence breeds friendship, friendship love. And where it starts or steps aside from this, It is a mere degenerous appetite, A lost, oblique, depraved affection, And bears no mark, or character of Love. Nor do they trespass within bounds of pardon, That giving way, and licence to their love, Divest him of his noblest ornaments, Which are his modesty, and shamefacedness: And so they do, that have unfit designs, Upon the parties, they pretend to love. For, what's more monstrous, more a prodigy, Then to hear me protest truth of affection Unto person that I would dishonour? And what's a more dishonour, then defacing Another's good, with forfeiting mine own? And drawing on a fellowship of sin; From note of which, though (for a while) we may Be both kept safe, by caution, yet the conscience Cannot be cleans worser. For what was hitherto Called by the name of love, becomes destroyed Then, with the fact: the innocency lost, The bating of affection soon will follow: And Love is never true, that is not lasting. No more then any can be pure, or perfect, That entertains more then one object. Dixi. TO to, she dissembles! All is personated, And counterfeit comes from her! If it were not, The Spanish Monarchy, with both the Indies, Could not buy off the treasure of this kiss, Or half give balance for my happiness. It was a beauty that I saw So pure, so perfect, as the frame Of all the universe was lame, To that one figure, could I draw, Or give least line of it a law! A skein of silk without a knot! A fair march made without a halt! A curious form without a fault! A printed book without a blot. All beauty, and without a spot. I have tried my skill. To close the second hour, if you will hear them, My boy by that time will have God it perfect. So help me love and my good sword at needs. It is the greatest virtue, and the safety Of all mankind, the object of it is danger. A certain mean betwixt fear, and confidence: No inconsiderate rashness, or vain appetite Of false encountering formidable thing ; But a true science of distinguishing What's good or evil. It springs out of reason, And tends to perfect honesty, the scope Is always honour, and the public good: It is no valour for a private cause. Then it is not valour. I never thought and angry person valiant: Virtue is never aided by a vice. What needs is there of anger, and of tumult ? When reason can do the same things, or more? Why so will drink make us both bold, and rash. Or frenzy if you will, do these make valiant? They are poor helps, and virtue needs them not. No man is valianter by being angry, But he that could not valiant be without: So, that it comes not in the aid of virtue, But in the stead of it. And it's and odious kind of remedy, To owe our health to a disease. Good Colonel Glorious, while we treat of valour, Dismiss your self. Go drink, And congregate the Ostler's, and the Tapsters, The under-officers of your regiment; Compose with them, and be not angry valiant! Thus. In the efficient, or that which makes it, For it proceeds from passion, not from judgement: Then bruit beasts have it, wicked persons, there It differs in the subject: in the form, It's carried rashly, and with violence: Then i'the end, where it respects not truth, Or public honesty; but mere revenge. Now confident, and undertaking valour, Sways from the true, two other ways; as being A trust in our own faculties, skill, or strength, And not the right, or conscience o'th cause, That works it: Then i'the end, which is the victory, And not the honour. Is worst of all: That valour lies, i'the eyes o'the lookers on; And is called valour with a witness. The things true valour is exercised about, Are poverty, restraint, captivity, Banishment, lose of children, long disease: The least is death. Here valour is beheld, Properly seen; about these it is present: Not trivial things, which but require our confidence. And, yet to those, we must object our selves, Only for honesty: if any other Respect be mixed, we quite put out her light. And as all knowledge, when it is removed Or separate from justice, is called craft, Rather then wisdom: so a mind affecting, Or undertaking dangers, for ambition, Or any self pretext, not for the public, Deserves the name of daring, not of valour, And over-daring is as great a vice, As over-fearing. But as is not the mere punishment, But cause that, makes a martyr, so it is not Fighting, or dying; but the manner of it Renders a man himself. A valiant man Ought not to undergo, or tempt a danger, But worthily, and by selected ways: He undertakes with reason, not by chance. His valour is the salt to his other virtues, They are all unseasoned without it. The waiting maids, Or the concomitants of it, are his patience, His magnanimity, his confidence, His constancy, security, and quiet; He can assure himself against all rumour! Despairs of nothing! laughs at contumelies! As knowing himself, advanced in a height Where injury cannot reach him, nor aspersion Touch him with soil! The purpose of and injury it's to vex And trouble me: now, nothing' can do that, To him that's valiant. He that is affected With the least injury, is less then it. It is but reasonable, to conclude That should be stronger, still, which hurts, then that Which is hurt. Now no wickedness is stronger, Then what opposeth it: Not Fortune's self, When she encounters virtue, but comes off Both lame, and less! why should a wise man then, Confess himself the weaker, by the feeling Of a fools wrong? There may and injury Be meant me, I may choose, if I will take it. But we are, now, come to that delicacy, And tenderness of sense, we think and insolence Worse then and injury, bear words worse then deeds; We are n to so much troubled with the wrong, As with the opinion of the wrong! Like children, We are made afraid with visors! Such poor sounds As is the lie, or common words of spite. Wise laws thought never worthy a revenge; And it's the narrowness of humane nature, Our poverty, and beggary of spirit, To take exception at these things. He laughed at me! He broke a jest! a third took place of me! How most ridiculous quarrels are all these? Notes of a queasy, and sick stomach, labouring With want of a true injury! the main partly Of the wrong, is, our vice of taking it. You take it rightly. If a woman, or child Give me the lie, would I be angry? no, Not if I were i'my wits, sure I should think it No spice of a disgrace. No more is theirs, If I will think it, who are to be held In as contemptible a rank, or worse. I am kept out a Masque, sometime thrust out, Made wait a day, two, three, for a great word, Which (when it comes forth) is all frown, and forehead! What laughter should this breed, rather then anger! Out of the tumult, of so many errors, To feel, with contemplation, mine own quiet? If a great person do me and affront, A Giant of the time, sure, I will bear it Or out of patience, or necessity! Shall I do more for fear, then for my judgement? For me now to be angry with Hodge Huffle, Or Burst (his broken charge) if he be saucy, Or our own type of Spanish valour, Tipto, (Who were he now necessited to beg Would ask and alms, Like Cond Olivares ) Were joust to make my self, such a vain Animal As one of them. If light wrongs touch me not, No more shall great; if not a few, not many. There's nought so sacred with us but may find A sacrilegious person, yet the thing is No less divine, cause the profane can reach it. He is shot free, in battle, is not hurt, Not he that is not hit. So he is valiant, That yields not unto wrongs; not he that escapes them They that do pull down Churches, and deface The holiest Altars, cannot hurt the Godhead. A calm wise man may show as much true valour, Amidst these popular provocations, As can and able Captain show security, By his brave conduct, through and enemies country. A wise man never goes the peoples way, But as the Planets still move contrary To the world's motion; so does he, to opinion: He will examine, if those accidents (Which common fame calls injuries) happen to him Deservedly, or no? come they deservedly, They are no wrongs then, but his punishments: If undeservedly, and he not guilty, The doer of them, first, should blush, not he. One more-I except. This was but half a kiss, and I would change it. From what a happiness hath that one word Thrown me, into the gulf of misery? To what a bottomless despair? how Like A Court removing, or and ended Play Shows, my abrupt precipitate estate, By how much more my vain Hope's were increased By these false hours of conversa ion? Did not I prophesy this, of my self, And gave the true prognostics? oh my brain! How art thou turned! and my blood congealed! My sinews slackened! and my marrow melted! That I remember not where I have been, Or what I am? Only my tongue's on fire; And burning downward, hurls forth coals, & cinders, To tell, this temple of love, will soon be ashes! Come Indignation, now, and be my mistress, No more of Loves ingrateful tyranny. His wheel of torture, and his pits of birdlime, His nets of nooses, whirlpools of vexation, His mills, to grind his servants into powder— I will go catch the wind first in a sieve, Weigh smoke, and measure shadows, plough the uva , And sow my Hope's there, ere I stay in Love. Farewell the craft of crocodiles, women's piety, And practice of it, in this art of flattering, And fooling men. I have not lost my reason, Though I have lent my self out, for two hours, Thus to be baff ld by a Chambermaid, And the good Actor, her Lady, afore mine Host, Of the light Heart, here, that hath laughed at all— , Laugh on, Sir, I'll to bed, and sleep, And dream away the vapour of Love, if th'house And your leere drunkards let me. Lad. ru. Is this a dream now, after my first sleep? Or are these fantasies made i'the light Heart? And sold i'the new Inn? Me, and her mistress, she hath power to coy e Up, into what she will. Stay let my Mrs But hear my vision sung, my dream of beauty, Which I have brought, prepared, to bid us joy, And light us all to bed, it'll be instead Of airing of the sheets with a sweet odour. If you can, it's well. Go down, and see, who they are come in, what guests; And bring me word. Oh love, what passion art thou! So tyrannous! and treacherous! first t'en-slaue, And then betray, all that in truth do serve thee! That not the wisest, nor the wariest creature, Can more dissemble thee, then he can bear Hight burning coals, in his bore palm, or bosom! And less, conceal, or hide thee, then a flash Of inflamed powder, whose whole light does lay it Open, to all discovery, even of those, Who have but half and eye, and less of nose! And Host, to find me! who is, commonly, The log, a little of this side the signpost! Or, at the best, some round grown thing! a Jug, Faced, with a beard, that fills out to the guests, And takes in, from the fragments o'their jests? But, I may wrong this, out of sullenness, Or my mistaking humour? Pray thee, phantasy, Be laid, again. And, gentle-Melancholy, Do not oppress me. I will be as silent, As the tame lover should be, and as foolish. My Guessed, my Guessed, be Jovial, I beseech thee. In have fresh golden guests, guests o'the game: Three coach-full! Lords! and Ladies! new come in. And I will cry them to thee, and thee, to them, So I can spring a smile, but his brow, That Like the rugged Roman Alderman,— Old master Gross, surnamed in non-Latin alphabet . Was never seen to laugh, but at and Ass. How! Stop, discharge the house: And get my horses ready, bid the Groom Bring them to the back gate. To take fair leave, mine Host. No, I affirm it, on my faith. Excuse me, From such a rudeness; I was now beginning To taste, and love you: and am heartily sorry, Any occasion should be so compelling, To urge my abrupt departure, thus. But— Necessity's a Tyrant, and commands it. Pleased, thou thinkest? Charge it again, good Ferret. And make unready the horses: Thou knowest how. Chalk, and renew the rondels. I am, now Resolved to stay. A meditation, Or rather a vision, Madam, and of Beauty Our former subject. Oh let him loose no time, though. That's men Idol, Set up against God, the maker of all laws, Who hath commanded us we should not kill; And yet we say, we must for reputation. What honest man can either fear his own, Or else will hurt another's reputation? Fear to do base, unworthy things, is valour, If they be done to us, to suffer them, Is valour too. The office of a man Thats truly valiant, is considerable Three ways: The first is in respect of matter, Which still is danger; in respect of form, Wherein he must preserve his dignity; And in the end, which must be ever lawful. What? It's guessed unhappily. Silly. The very same: The mad Lord Frampul! And this same is his danghter! But as cock-brained as ere the father was! There were two of them, Frances and Laetitiae; But Laetice was lost young; and, as the rumor Flew then, the mother upon it lost her self. A found weak woman, went away in a melancholy, Because she brought him none but girls, she thought Her husband loved her not. And he, as foolish, Too late resenting the cause given, went after; In quest of her, and was not herd of since. Ferret have not you been ploughing With this mad Ox, mine host? nor he with you? What? What's that?