But where firm bodies thy free course oppose, Gently thy source the land o’erflows; Takes there possession, and does make, Of colours mingled, Light, a thick and standing lake. But the vast ocean of unbounded Day In the Empyrean Heaven does stay. Thy rivers, lakes, and springs below From thence took first their rise, thither at last must flow. RICHARD LOVELACE 1618–1658 TO LUCASTA ON GOING TO THE WARS TELL me not, Sweet, I am unkind, That from the nunnery Of thy chaste breast and quiet mind To war and arms I fly. True; a new mistress now I chase, The first foe in the field; And with a stronger faith embrace A sword, a horse, a shield. Yet this inconstancy is such As thou, too, shalt adore; I could not love thee, dear, so much Loved I not honour more. TO AMARANTHA _That she would dishevel her hair_ AMARANTHA, sweet and fair, Ah, braid no more that shining hair! As my curious hand or eye Hovering round thee, let it fly. Let it fly as unconfined As its calm ravisher the wind, Who hath left his darling, th’ east, To wanton in that spicy nest. Every tress must be confessed; But neatly tangled at the best; Like a clew of golden thread Most excellently ravelled. Do not, then, wind up that light In ribands, and o’er cloud in night, Like the sun in ’s early ray; But shake your head and scatter day. LUCASTA _Paying her Obsequies to the chaste memory of my dearest Cousin_, _Mrs. Bowes Barne_ SEE what an undisturbed tear She weeps for _her_ last sleep! But viewing her, straight waked, a star, She weeps that she did weep. Grief ne’er before did tyrannize On the honour of that brow, And at the wheels of her brave eyes Was captive led, till now. Thus for a saint’s apostasy, The unimagined woes And sorrows of the hierarchy None but an angel knows. Thus for lost soul’s recovery, The clapping of the wings And triumph of this victory None but an angel sings. So none but she knows to bemoan This equal virgin’s fate; None but Lucasta can her crown Of glory celebrate. Then dart on me, Chaste Light, one ray, By which I may descry Thy joy clear through this cloudy day To dress my sorrow by. TO ALTHEA, FROM PRISON WHEN love with unconfined wings Hovers within my gates, And my divine Althea brings To whisper at the grates; When I lie tangled in her hair And fettered to her eye; The birds that wanton in the air Know no such liberty.