When flowing cups run swiftly round With no allaying Thames, Our careless heads with roses crowned, Our hearts with loyal flames; When thirsty grief in wine we steep, When healths and draughts go free, Fishes that tipple in the deep Know no such liberty. When (like committed linnets) I With shriller throat shall sing The sweetness, mercy, majesty And glories of my King; When I shall voice aloud how good He is, how great should be, Enlarged winds that curl the flood Know no such liberty. Stone walls do not a prison make Nor iron bars a cage; Minds innocent and quiet take That for an hermitage; If I have freedom in my love, And in my soul am free, Angels alone that soar above Enjoy such liberty. A GUILTLESS LADY IMPRISONED: AFTER PENANCED HARK, fair one, how whate’er here is Doth laugh and sing at thy distress, Not out of hate to thy relief, But joy—to enjoy thee, though in grief. See! that which chains you, you chain here, The prison is thy prisoner; How much thy jailor’s keeper art! He binds thy hands, but thou his heart. The gyves to rase so smooth a skin Are so unto themselves within; But, blest to kiss so fair an arm, Haste to be happy with that harm; And play about thy wanton wrist, As if in them thou so wert dressed; But if too rough, too hard they press, O they but closely, closely kiss. And as thy bare feet bless the way, The people do not mock, but pray, And call thee, as amazed they run, Instead of prostitute, a nun. The merry torch burns with desire To kindle the eternal fire, {168} And lightly dances in thine eyes To tunes of epithalamies. The sheet tied ever to thy waist, How thankful to be so embraced! And see! thy very, very bands Are bound to thee to bind such hands. THE ROSE SWEET, serene, sky-like flower, Haste to adorn the bower; From thy long cloudy bed, Shoot forth thy damask head. New-startled blush of Flora, The grief of pale Aurora (Who will contest no more), Haste, haste to strew her floor! Vermilion ball that’s given From lip to lip in Heaven; Love’s couch’s coverled, Haste, haste to make her bed. Dear offspring of pleased Venus And jolly, plump Silenus, Haste, haste to deck the hair Of the only sweetly fair! See! rosy is her bower, Her floor is all this flower Her bed a rosy nest By a bed of roses pressed. But early as she dresses, Why fly you her bright tresses? Ah! I have found, I fear,— Because her cheeks are near. ANDREW MARVELL 1620–1678 A HORATIAN ODE UPON CROMWELL’S RETURN FROM IRELAND