Nature's first lesson; so discretion

Must not grudge zeal a place, nor yet keep none,
Not banish itself, nor religion.

Discretion is a wise man's soul, and so

Religion is a Christian's, and you know

How these are one; her 'Yea' is not her 'No.'

Nor may we hope to solder still and knit

These two, and dare to break them; nor must wit
Be colleague to religion, but be it.

In those poor types of God, round circles, so
Religion's types the pieceless centres flow,
And are in all the lines which all ways go.

If either ever wrought in you alone
Or principally, then religion

Wrought your ends, and your ways discretion.

Go thither still; go the same way you went;
Whoso would change, do covet or repent;
Neither can reach you, great and innocent.

11. 40-42. In 1635 these precede ll. 34-39
1. 53. 1669, doth covet

40

50

TO THE COUNTESS OF HUNTINGDON.

THAT unripe side of earth, that heavy clime,
That gives us man up now, like Adam's time
Before he ate, man's shape, that would yet be
-Knew they not it, and feared beasts' company-
So naked at this day, as though man there
From paradise so great a distance were,
As yet the news could not arrived be
Of Adam's tasting the forbidden tree,

Deprived of that free state which they were in,
And, wanting the reward, yet bear the sin.

IO

But, as from extreme heights who downward looks, Sees men at children's shapes, rivers at brooks, And loseth younger forms; so, to your eye, These, madam, that without your distance lie, Must either mist or nothing seem to be, Who are, at home, but wit's mere Atomi. But I, who can behold them move, and stay, Have found myself to you, just their midway; And now must pity them; for, as they do Seem sick to me, just so must I to you. Yet neither will I vex your eyes to see A sighing ode, nor cross-arm'd elegy. I come not to call pity from your heart, Like some white-liver'd dotard that would part Else from his slippery soul with a faint groan, And faithfully, without you smiled, were gone.

1. 26. 1669, without you smile

20

I cannot feel the tempest of a frown;

I may be raised by love, but not thrown down;

Though I can pity those sigh twice a day,
I hate that thing whispers itself away.
Yet since all love is fever, who to trees

Doth talk, doth yet in love's cold ague freeze.
'Tis love, but with such fatal weakness made,

That it destroys itself with its own shade.

30

Who first looked sad, grieved, pined, and shew'd his pain,

Was he that first taught women to disdain.

As all things were one nothing, dull and weak,
Until this raw disorder'd heap did break,
And several desires led parts away,

Water declined with earth, the air did stay,
Fire rose, and each from other but untied,
Themselves unprison'd were and purified;
So was love, first in vast confusion hid,
An unripe willingness which nothing did,
A thirst, an appetite which had no ease,

40

That found a want, but knew not what would please.

What pretty innocence in those days moved!

Man ignorantly walk'd by her he loved;

Both sigh'd and interchanged a speaking eye;

Both trembled and were sick; both knew not why. 50
That natural fearfulness that struck man dumb,
Might well-those times consider'd-man become.

As all discoverers, whose first essay
Finds but the place-after, the nearest way,
So passion is to woman's love, about,
Nay, farther off, than when we first set out.
It is not love that sueth, or doth contend;
Love either conquers, or but meets a friend;
Man's better part consists of purer fire,

And finds itself allow'd, ere it desire.

60

Love is wise here, keeps home, gives reason

sway,

And journeys not till it find summer-way.

A weather-beaten lover but once known,

Is sport for every girl to practise on.
Who strives through woman's scorns

know,

women to

Is lost, and seeks his shadow to outgo.
It must be sickness after one disdain,
Though he be call'd aloud, to look again.
Let others sin and grieve; one cunning slight
Shall freeze my love to crystal in a night.
I can love first, and, if I win, love still;
And cannot be removed, unless she will.
It is her fault if I unsure remain,

She only can untie, I bind again.
The honesties of love with ease I do,

But am no porter for a tedious woe.

But, madam, I now think on you; and here Where we are at our heights, you but appear. We are but clouds, you rise from our noon-ray,

But a foul shadow, not your break of day.

1. 67. 1669, It is mere

70

80

You are at first hand all that's fair and right,
And others' good reflects but back your light.
You are a perfectness, so curious hit,
That youngest flatteries do scandal it.

For, what is more doth what you are restrain,
And though beyond, is down the hill again.
We've no next way to you, we cross to it;
You are the straight line, thing praised, attribute.
Each good in you's a light; so many a shade
You make, and in them are your motions made.
These are your pictures to the life. From far
We see you move, and here your zanies are;
So that no fountain good there is, doth grow
In you, but our dim actions faintly show.

Then find I, if man's noblest part be love,
Your purest lustre must that shadow move.
The soul with body is a heaven combined
With earth, and for man's ease, but nearer join'd;
Where thoughts, the stars of soul, we understand;
We guess not their large natures, but command.
And love in you that bounty is of light,
That gives to all, and yet hath infinite;
Whose heat doth force us thither to intend,
But soul we find too earthly to ascend,
'Till slow access hath made it wholly pure,
Able immortal clearness to endure.

Who dare aspire this journey with a stain,
Hath weight will force him headlong back again.

No more can impure man retain and move

In that pure region of a worthy love,

1. 98, 1669 omits but

90

100