Tell me not of a face that’s fair, Nor lip and cheek that’s red, Nor of the tresses of her hair, Nor curls in order laid, Nor of a rare seraphic voice That like an angel sings; Though if I were to take my choice I would have all these things: But if that thou wilt have me love, And it must be a she, The only argument can move Is that she will love me. The glories of your ladies be But metaphors of things, And but resemble what we see Each common object brings. Roses out-red their lips and cheeks, Lilies their whiteness stain; What fool is he that shadows seeks And may the substance gain? Then if thou’lt have me love a lass, Let it be one that’s kind: Else I’m a servant to the glass That’s with Canary lined. ANDREW MARVELL 1621-1678 _355._ _An Horatian Ode_ _upon Cromwell’s Return from Ireland_ The forward youth that would appear Must now forsake his Muses dear, Nor in the shadows sing His numbers languishing. ’Tis time to leave the books in dust, And oil the unused armour’s rust, Removing from the wall The corslet of the hall. So restless Cromwell could not cease In the inglorious arts of peace, But through adventurous war Urgèd his active star: And like the three-fork’d lightning, first Breaking the clouds where it was nurst, Did thorough his own side His fiery way divide: For ’tis all one to courage high, The emulous, or enemy; And with such, to enclose Is more than to oppose. Then burning through the air he went And palaces and temples rent; And Cæsar’s head at last Did through his laurels blast. ’Tis madness to resist or blame The face of angry Heaven’s flame; And if we would speak true, Much to the man is due, Who, from his private gardens, where He lived reservèd and austere (As if his highest plot To plant the bergamot), Could by industrious valour climb To ruin the great work of time, And cast the Kingdoms old Into another mould; Though Justice against Fate complain, And plead the ancient rights in vain-- But those do hold or break As men are strong or weak-- Nature, that hateth emptiness, Allows of penetration less, And therefore must make room Where greater spirits come. What field of all the civil war Where his were not the deepest scar? And Hampton shows what part He had of wiser art; Where, twining subtle fears with hope, He wove a net of such a scope That Charles himself might chase To Caresbrooke’s narrow case; That thence the Royal actor borne The tragic scaffold might adorn: While round the armèd bands Did clap their bloody hands.