WHEN these my letters come into thy view, Think 'em not forc'd, or fain'd, or strange, or new, Thou know'ft no way, no means, no courfe ex

empted,

Left now unfought, unprov'd, or unattempted.
All rules, regards, all fecret helps of art,
What knowledge, wit, experience can impart,
And in the old world's ceremonies doated,
Good days for love, times, hours, and minutes
noted;

And where art left, love teacheth more to find,
By figns in prefence to express the mind.

Oft hath mine eye told thine eye beauty griev'd it, And begg'd but for one look to have reliev'd it; And ftill with thine eye's motion mine eye mov'd,

Lab'ring for mercy, telling how it lov'd:

You blufht, I blufht; your cheek pale, pale was

mine;

My red, thy red, my whiteness answer'd thine;

You figh'd, I figh'd, we both one paffion prove;
But thy figh is for hate, my sigh for love.
If a word pafs'd that infufficient were,
To help that word mine eye let forth a tear;
And if that tear did dull or fenfeless prove,
My heart would fetch a throb to make it move.
Oft in thy face one favour from the reft

I fingled forth, that pleas'd my fancy beft;
This likes me moft, another likes me more,
A third exceeding both those lik'd before:
Then one, as wonder were derived thence,
Than that, whofe rarenefs paffeth excellence.
Whilst I behold thy globe-like rowling eye,
Thy lovely cheek (methinks) stands fmiling by,
And tells me thofe are fhadows and fuppofes,
But bids me thither come and gather rofes:
Looking on that, thy brow doth call to me,
To come to it, if wonders I will fee:
Now have I done, and then thy dimpled chin
Again doth tell me newly I begin,

And bids me yet to look upon thy lip,
Left wond'ring leaft, the great'ft I over flip :
My gazing eye on this and this doth feize,
Which furfeits, yet cannot defire appease.
Now like I brown (O lovely brown thy hair!)
Only in brownnefs beauty dwelleth there.
Then love I black, thine eye-ball black as jet,
Which in a globe pure crystalline is set :

Then white; but fnow, nor fwan, nor ivory please,

Then are thy teeth more whiter than all these;
In brown, in black, in pureness, and in white,
All love, all fweets, all rareness, all delight:
Thus thou, vile thief, my ftol'n heart hence do'ft
carry,

And now thou fly'ft into a fanctuary.

Fie, peevish girl, ungrateful unto nature;
Did fhe to this end frame thee fuch a creature,
That thou her glory should'st increase thereby,
And thou alone do'ft fcorn fociety?
Why, heav'n made beauty like herself, to view,
Not to be lock'd up in a fmoaky mew:
A rofy-tincted feature is heav'n's gold,
Which all men joy to touch, all to behold.
It was enacted when the world begun,

That fo rare a beauty fhould not live a Nun :
But of this vow thou needs wilt undertake,
O were mine arms a cloister for thy fake!
Still may his pains for ever be augmented,
This fuperftition idly that invented :

Ill might he thrive, who brought this cuftom

hither,

That holy people might not live together.
A happy time, a good world was it then,.
When holy women liv'd with holy men;
But kings in this yet privileg'd may be;
I'll be a Monk, fo I may live with thee.
Who would not rife to ring the morning's knell,
When thy fweet lips might be the facring bell?
Or what is he, not willingly would fast,
That on thofe lips might feaft his lips at laft?
Who to his mattins early would not rise,
That might read by the light of thy fair eyes?
On worldly pleasures who would ever look,
That had thy curls his beads, thy brows his
book?

Wert thou the cross, to thee who would not

creep,

And with the crofs ftill in his arms to keep?
Sweet girl, I'll take this holy habit on me,
Of meer devotion that is come upon me;
Holy Matilda, thou the faint of mine,
I'll be thy fervant, and my bed thy fhrine.
When I do offer, be thy breaft the altar;
And when I pray, thy mouth fhall be my pfalter.
The beads that we will bid, fhall be fweet kif-
fes,

Which we will number, if one pleasure miffes;
And when an ave comes, to fay Amen,
We will begin, and tell them o'er again :
Now all good fortune give me happy thrift,
As I should joy t' abfolve thee after fhrift.

But fee how much I do myfelf beguile,
And do mistake thy meaning all this while!

Thou took'ft this vow to equal my defire,
Because thou wouldst have me to be a Frier,
And that we two fhould comfort one another,
A holy fifter and a holy brother:
Thou as a vot'refs to my love alone,
"She is most chaste that's but enjoy'd of one."
Yea, now thy true devotion do I find,
And fure, in this I much commend thy mind,
Elfe here thou do'ft but ill example give,
And in a nun'ry thus thou fhouldst not live.
Is't poffible, the house that thou art in,
Should not be touch'd (though with a venial fin?)
When fuch a fhe-prieft comes her mass to say,
Twenty to one they all forget to pray :

Well may we with they would their hearts 2mend,

When we be witness that their eyes offend :
All creatures have defires, or else some lie;
Let them think fo that will, fo will not I.

Do'st thou not think our ancestors were wife,
That these religious cells did first devife,
As hofpitals were for the fore and fick,
Thefe for the crook'd, the halt, the ftigmatic,
Left that their feed mark'd with deformity,
Should be a blemish to pofterity?

Would heav'n her beauty fhould be hid from fight,

Ne'er would fhe thus herself adorn with light, With sparkling lamps, nor would the paint her throne,

But the delighteth to be gaz'd upon :
And when the golden glorious fun goes down,
Would the put on her ftar beftudded crown,
And in her masking fuit, the fpangled sky,
Come forth to bride it in her revelry,

And gave this gift to all things in creation,
That they in this should imitate her fashion.
All things that fair, that pure, that glorious

been,

Offers themselves of purpose to be seen.
In finks and vaults the ugly toads do dwell,
The devils, fince moft ugly, they in Hell.
Our mother (earth) ne'er glories in her fruit,
Till by the fun clad in her tinfel fuit;
Nor doth the ever fmile him in the face,
Till in his glorious arms he her embrace:
Which proves the hath a foul, fenfe, and delight
Of generation's feeling appetite.

Well, hypocrite (in faith) wouldst thou confefs,
What ere thy tongue fay, thy heart faith no lefs.
Note but this one thing (if nought elfe per-

fwade)

Nature of all things male and female made,
Shewing herfelf in our proportion plain;
For never made the any thing in vain :
For as thou art, fhould any have been thus,
She would have left cnfample unto us.
The turtle, that's fo true and chafte in love,
Shews by her mate fomething the spirit doth

move:

Th' Arabian bird that never is but one,

Is only chate, becaufe fhe is alone:

But had our mother nature made them two, They would have done as doves and sparrows do

And therefore made a martyr in defire,
To do her penance laftly in the fire:
So may they all be roafted quick, that be
Apoftata's to nature, as is the.

Find me but one fo young, so fair, fo free, (Woo'd, fu'd, and fought by him that now feeks thee)

But of thy mind, and here I undertake
To build a nun'ry for her only fake.

O, hadst thou tafted of thofe rare delights, Ordain'd each where to please great princes fights!

To have their beauty and their wits admir'd,
(Which is by nature of your fex defir'd)
Attended by our trains, our pomp, our port,
Like gods ador'd abroad, kneel'd to in court,
To be faluted with the cheerful cry

Of highness, grace, and fovereign majefty:
"But unto them that know not pleafure's price,
"All's one, a prison and a paradise."
If in a dungeon clos'd up from the light,
There is no diff'rence 'twixt the day and night;

"Whose palate never tafted dainty cates, "Thinks homely dishes princely delicates." Alas, poor girl, I pity thine eftate,

That now thus long haft liv'd difconfolate!
Why now at length yet let thy heart relent,
And call thy father back from banishment,
And with those princely honours here invest
him,

Of which fond love, not hate, hath difpoffeft him.

Call from exile thy dear allies and friends,
To whom the fury of my grief extends;
And if thou take my counsel in this cafe,
I make no doubt thou shalt have better grace:
And leave thy Dunmow, that accurfed cell,
There let black night and melancholy dwell;
Come to the court, where all joys shall receive

thee,

And till that hour, yet with my grief, I leave thee.

This epiftle of King John to Matilda is much more poetical than historical, making no mention at all of the occurrents of the time or ftate, touching only his love to her, and the extremity of his paffion, forced by his defires, rightly fashioning the humour of this king, as hath been truly noted by the most authentical writers, whose nature and difpofition is truelieft difcerned in the course of his love: first, jefting at the ce

remonies of the fervices of thofe times: then going about by all frong and probable arguments to reduce her to pleasures and delights next with promifes of honour, which he thinketh to be the laft and greatest means, and to have greatest power on her fex, with a promise of cal ling home her friends, which he thought might be a great inducement to his defires.

No fooner I receiv'd thy letters here,

Before I knew from whom, or whence they

were,

But fudden fear my bloodless veins doth fill,
As though divining of fome future ill;
And in a fhiv'ring extafy I ftood,
A chilly coldness ran through all my blood:
Opening the packet, I shut up my rest,
And let strange cares into my quiet breast,
As though thy hard unpitying hand had fent me
Some new-devised torture to torment me.
Well had I hop'd I had been now forgot,
Caft out with thofe things thou remembreft not;
And that proud beauty, which enforc'd me hither,
Had with my name been perifhed together :
"But O (I fee) our hoped good deceives us;
"But what we would forego, that feldom leaves

Thy blameful lines, bespotted so with fin, Mine eye would cleanse, ere they to read begin: But I to wash an Indian go about,

For ill fo hard fet on is hard got out.

I once determin'd ftill to have been mute,
Only by filence to refel thy fute;

But this again did alter my intent,
For fome will fay, that filence doth confent :
"Defire with fmall encouraging grows bold,
"And hope of every little thing takes hold."

I fet me down, at large to write my mind,
But now, nor pen nor paper can I find;
For ftill my paffion is fo pow'rful o'er me,
That I difcern not things that stand before me :
Finding the pen, the paper, and the wax,
These at command, and now invention lacks :
This fentence ferves, and that my hand out-
ftrikes;

That pleaseth well, and this as much mislikes.
I write, indite, I point, I raze, I quote,

I interline, I blot, correct, I note:

I hope, despair, take courage, faint, disdain,

I make, allege, I imitate, I fain : Now thus it must be, and now thus, and thus, Bold, fhame-fac'd, fearless, doubtful, timorous: My faint hand writing when my full eye reads, From ev'ry word ftrange paffion ftill proceeds. "O, when the foul is fett'red once in woe, "'Tis ftrange what humours it doth force us to!"

A tear doth drown a tear, figh figh doth fmother,

This hinders that, that interrupts the other:
Th' over-watch'd weakness of the fick conceit,
Is that which makes fmall beauty feem fo great;
Like things which hid in troubled waters lic,
Which crook'd, seem straight, if ftraight, the con-
trary:

And thus our vain imagination fhews it,
As it conceives it, not as judgment knows it.
|(As in a mirrour, if the fame be true,

Such as your likeness, juftly fuch are you :
But as you change your self, it changeth there,
And fhews you as you are, not as you were :
And with your motion doth your shadow move,
If frown or fmile, fuch the conceit of love.)
Why tell me, is it poffible the mind
A form in all deformity fhould find?
Within the compafs of man's face, we fee,
How many forts of feveral favours be;
And in the chin, the nofe, the brow, the eye,
The fmalleft diff'rence that you can defery,
Alters proportion, altereth the grace,
Nay, oft deftroys the favour of the face:
And in the world fcarce two fo like there are,
One with the other which if you compare,
But being fet before you both together,
A judging fight doth foon diftinguish either.
How woman-like a weaknefs is it then?
O, what strange madness so poffeffeth men !

Bereft of fenfe, fuch fenfelefs wonders feeing,
Without form, fashion, certainty, or being?
For which fo many die to live in anguish,
Yet cannot live, if thus they should not languish:
That comfort yields not, and yet hope denies

not,

A life that lives not, and a death that dies not;
That hates us moft, when most it speaks us fair,
Doth promife all things, always pays with air:
Yet fometime doth our greatest grief appeafe,
To double forrow after little eafe.

Like that which thy lafcivious will doth crave,
Which if once had, thou never more canft have;
Which if thou get, in getting thou do'ft wafte it,
Taken is loft, and perish'd if thou hast it:
Which if thou gain'ft, thou ne'er the more haft

won,

I lofing nothing, yet am quite undone;
And yet of that if that a king deprave me,
No king reftores, though he a kingdom gave

me.

(4) Do'st thou of father and of friends deprive me?

And tak'st thou from me all that heav'n did give me?

What nature claims by blood, allies, or nearnefs,

Or friendship challenge by regard or dearness,
Mak'ft me an orphan ere my father die,
A woful widow in virginity?

Is thy unbridled luft the cause of all?
And now thy flatt'ring tongue bewails my fall.
The dead man's grave with fained tears to fill,
So the devouring crocodile doth kill :

To harbour hate in fhew of wholfom things,
So in the rose the poifon'd ferpent stings :
To lurk far off, yet lodge deftruction by,
The bafilifk fo poisons with the eye:
To call for aid, and then to lie in wait,
So the hyæna murders by deceit :
By fweet inticement fudden death to bring,
So from the rocks th' alluring mermaids fing:
In greatest wants t' inflict the greatest woe,
Is ev'n the utmost tyranny can do.
But where (I fee) the tempeft thus prevails,
What use of anchors? or what need we fails?
Above us, blust'ring winds and dreadful thun-
der,

The waters gape for our deftruction under;
Here on this fide the furious billows fly,
There rocks, there fands, and dang'rous whirl-
pools lie.

Is this the mean that mightiness approves?
And in this fort do princes woo their loves?
Mildness would better fuit with majesty,
Than rash revenge and rough severity.
O, in what fafety temperance doth reft,
Obtaining harbour in a fovereign breast!
Which if fo praiseful in the meanest men,
In pow'rful kings how glorious is it then?

(6) Fled I first hither, hoping to have aid,
Here thus to have mine innocence betray'd?
Is court and country both her enemy,
And no place found to fhrowd in chastity?

VOL. III.

Or as they please to other shapes do turn.
Cinyra's daughter, whofe incestuous mind
Made her wrong nature, and difhonour kind,
Long fince by them is turn'd into a myrrh,
Whofe dropping liquor ever weeps for her:
And in a fountain Biblis doth deplore
Her fault fo vile and monsterous before:
Scylla, which once her father did betray,
Is now a bird (if all be true they fay :)
She that with Phoebus did the foul offence,
Now metamorphos'd into frankincense:
Other to flowers, to odours, and to gum,
At leaft, Jove's leman is a ftar become :
And more, they fain a thousand fond excufes,
To cloud their 'scapes, and cover their abuses:
The virgin only they obfcure and hide,
Whilft the unchafte by them are deify'd;
And if by them a virgin be expreft,
She must be rank'd ignobly with the rest.

I am not now, as when thou faw'ft me laft,
Time hath those features utterly defac'd,
And all thofe beauties which fate on my brow,
Thou wouldst not think such ever had been now:
And glad I am that time with me is done,
(c)Vowing myfelf religiously a Nun:
My veftal habit me contenting more,
Than all the robes adorning me before.

Had Rofamond (a reclufe of our fort) Taken our cloifter, left the wanton court, Shadowing that beauty with a holy vail, Which the (alas!) too loofly fet to fale, She need not, like an ugly Minotaur, Have been lock'd up from jealous Ele'nor, But been as famous by thy mother's wrongs, As by thy father fubject to all tongues. "To fhadow fin, might can the most pretend; "Kings, but the confcience, all things can de "fend."

A ftronger hand refrains our wilful pow'rs,
A will muft rule above this will of ours;
Not following what our vain defires do woo,
For virtue's fake but what we only do.

And hath my father chofe to live exil'd,
Before his eyes fhould fee my youth defil'd?
(d) And, to withstand a tyrant's lewd defire,
Beheld his towns fpent in revengeful fire,
Yet never touch'd with grief: fo only I,
Exempt from fhame, might honourably die?
And fhall this jewel, which fo dearly coft,
Be after all by my difhonour loft?
No, no, each rev'rend word, each holy tear
Of his in me too deep impreffion bear;
His latest farewel at his laft depart,
More deeply is ingraved in my heart ;

F