<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=498944" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>Amarantha. A Pastorall</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0">Up with the jolly bird of light<br>Who sounds his third retreat to night;<br>Faire Amarantha from her bed<br>Ashamed starts, and rises red<br>As the carnation-mantled morne,<br>Who now the blushing robe doth spurne,<br>And puts on angry gray, whilst she,<br>The envy of a deity,<br>Arayes her limbes, too rich indeed<br>To be inshrin'd in such a weed;<br>Yet lovely 'twas and strait, but fit;<br>Not made for her, but she to it:<br>By nature it sate close and free,<br>As the just bark unto the tree:<br>Unlike Love's martyrs of the towne,<br>All day imprison'd in a gown,<br>Who, rackt in silke 'stead of a dresse,<br>Are cloathed in a frame or presse,<br>And with that liberty and room,<br>The dead expatiate in a tombe.<br> No cabinets with curious washes,<br>Bladders and perfumed plashes;<br>No venome-temper'd water's here,<br>Mercury is banished this sphere:<br>Her payle's all this, in which wet glasse<br>She both doth cleanse and view her face.<br> Far hence, all Iberian smells,<br>Hot amulets, Pomander spells,<br>Fragrant gales, cool ay'r, the fresh<br>And naturall odour of her flesh,<br>Proclaim her sweet from th' wombe as morne.<br>Those colour'd things were made, not borne.<br>Which, fixt within their narrow straits,<br>Do looke like their own counterfeyts.<br>So like the Provance rose she walkt,<br>Flowerd with blush, with verdure stalkt;<br>Th' officious wind her loose hayre curles,<br>The dewe her happy linnen purles,<br>But wets a tresse, which instantly<br>Sol with a crisping beame doth dry.<br> Into the garden is she come,<br>Love and delight's Elisium;<br>If ever earth show'd all her store,<br>View her discolourd budding floore;<br>Here her glad eye she largely feedes,<br>And stands 'mongst them, as they 'mong weeds;<br>The flowers in their best aray<br>As to their queen their tribute pay,<br>And freely to her lap proscribe<br>A daughter out of ev'ry tribe.<br>Thus as she moves, they all bequeath<br>At once the incense of their breath.<br> The noble Heliotropian<br>Now turnes to her, and knowes no sun.<br> And as her glorious face doth vary,<br>So opens loyall golden Mary<br>Who, if but glanced from her sight,<br>Straight shuts again, as it were night.<br>The violet (else lost ith' heap)<br>Doth spread fresh purple for each step,<br>With whose humility possest,<br>Sh' inthrones the Poore Girle in her breast:<br>The July-flow'r that hereto thriv'd,<br>Knowing her self no longer-liv'd,<br>But for one look of her upheaves,<br>Then 'stead of teares straight sheds her leaves.<br> Now the rich robed Tulip who,<br>Clad all in tissue close, doth woe<br>Her (sweet to th' eye but smelling sower),<br>She gathers to adorn her bower.<br> But the proud Hony-suckle spreads<br>Like a pavilion her heads,<br>Contemnes the wanting commonalty,<br>That but to two ends usefull be,<br>And to her lips thus aptly plac't,<br>With smell and hue presents her tast.<br> So all their due obedience pay,<br>Each thronging to be in her way:<br>Faire Amarantha with her eye<br>Thanks those that live, which else would dye:<br>The rest, in silken fetters bound,<br>By crowning her are crown and crown'd.<br> And now the sun doth higher rise,<br>Our Flora to the meadow hies:<br>The poore distressed heifers low,<br>And as sh' approacheth gently bow,<br>Begging her charitable leasure<br>To strip them of their milkie treasure.<br> Out of the yeomanry oth' heard,<br>With grave aspect, and feet prepar'd,<br>A rev'rend lady-cow drawes neare,<br>Bids Amarantha welcome here;<br>And from her privy purse lets fall<br>A pearle or two, which seeme[s] to call<br>This adorn'd adored fayry<br>To the banquet of her dayry.<br> Soft Amarantha weeps to see<br>'Mongst men such inhumanitie,<br>That those, who do receive in hay,<br>And pay in silver twice a day,<br>Should by their cruell barb'rous theft<br>Be both of that and life bereft.<br> But 'tis decreed, when ere this dies,<br>That she shall fall a sacrifice<br>Unto the gods, since those, that trace<br>Her stemme, show 'tis a god-like race,<br>Descending in an even line<br>From heifers and from steeres divine,<br>Making the honour'd extract full<br>In Io and Europa's bull.<br>She was the largest goodliest beast,<br>That ever mead or altar blest;<br>Round [w]as her udder, and more white<br>Then is the Milkie Way in night;<br>Her full broad eye did sparkle fire;<br>Her breath was sweet as kind desire,<br>And in her beauteous crescent shone,<br>Bright as the argent-horned moone.<br> But see! this whiteness is obscure,<br>Cynthia spotted, she impure;<br>Her body writheld, and her eyes<br>Departing lights at obsequies:<br>Her lowing hot to the fresh gale,<br>Her breath perfumes the field withall;<br>To those two suns that ever shine,<br>To those plump parts she doth inshrine,<br>To th' hovering snow of either hand,<br>That love and cruelty command.<br> After the breakfast on her teat,<br>She takes her leave oth' mournfull neat<br>Who, by her toucht, now prizeth her life,<br>Worthy alone the hollowed knife.<br> Into the neighbring wood she's gone,<br>Whose roofe defies the tell-tale Sunne,<br>And locks out ev'ry prying beame;<br>Close by the lips of a cleare streame,<br>She sits and entertaines her eye<br>With the moist chrystall and the frye<br>With burnisht-silver mal'd, whose oares<br>Amazed still make to the shoares;<br>What need she other bait or charm,<br>What hook or angle, but her arm?<br>The happy captive, gladly ta'n,<br>Sues ever to be slave in vaine,<br>Who instantly (confirm'd in's feares)<br>Hasts to his element of teares.<br> From hence her various windings roave<br>To a well-orderd stately grove;<br>This is the pallace of the wood<br>And court oth' Royall Oake, where stood<br>The whole nobility: the Pine,<br>Strait Ash, tall Firre, and wanton Vine;<br>The proper Cedar, and the rest.<br>Here she her deeper senses blest;<br>Admires great Nature in this pile,<br>Floor'd with greene-velvet Camomile,<br>Garnisht with gems of unset fruit,<br>Supply'd still with a self recruit;<br>Her bosom wrought with pretty eyes<br>Of never-planted Strawberries;<br>Where th' winged musick of the ayre<br>Do richly feast, and for their fare,<br>Each evening in a silent shade,<br>Bestow a gratefull serenade.<br> Thus ev'n tyerd with delight,<br>Sated in soul and appetite;<br>Full of the purple Plumme and Peare,<br>The golden Apple, with the faire<br>Grape that mirth fain would have taught her,<br>And nuts, which squirrells cracking brought her;<br>She softly layes her weary limbs,<br>Whilst gentle slumber now beginnes<br>To draw the curtaines of her eye;<br>When straight awakend with a crie<br>And bitter groan, again reposes,<br>Again a deep sigh interposes.<br>And now she heares a trembling voyce:<br>Ah! can there ought on earth rejoyce!<br>Why weares she this gay livery,<br>Not black as her dark entrails be?<br>Can trees be green, and to the ay'r<br>Thus prostitute their flowing hayr?<br>Why do they sprout, not witherd dy?<br>Must each thing live, save wretched I?<br>Can dayes triumph in blew and red,<br>When both their light and life is fled?<br>Fly Joy on wings of Popinjayes<br>To courts of fools, where as your playes<br>Dye laught at and forgot; whilst all<br>That's good mourns at this funerall.<br>Weep, all ye Graces, and you sweet<br>Quire, that at the hill inspir'd meet:<br>Love, put thy tapers out, that we<br>And th' world may seem as blind as thee;<br>And be, since she is lost (ah wound!)<br>Not Heav'n it self by any found.<br> Now as a prisoner new cast,<br>Who sleepes in chaines that night, his last,<br>Next morn is wak't with a repreeve,<br>And from his trance, not dream bid live,<br>Wonders (his sence not having scope)<br>Who speaks, his friend or his false hope.<br> So Amarantha heard, but feare<br>Dares not yet trust her tempting care;<br>And as againe her arms oth' ground<br>Spread pillows for her head, a sound<br>More dismall makes a swift divorce,<br>And starts her thus:----Rage, rapine, force!<br>Ye blew-flam'd daughters oth' abysse,<br>Bring all your snakes, here let them hisse;<br>Let not a leaf its freshnesse keep;<br>Blast all their roots, and as you creepe,<br>And leave behind your deadly slime,<br>Poyson the budding branch in's prime:<br>Wast the proud bowers of this grove,<br>That fiends may dwell in it, and move<br>As in their proper hell, whilst she<br>Above laments this tragedy:<br>Yet pities not our fate; oh faire<br>Vow-breaker, now betroth'd to th' ay'r!<br>Why by those lawes did we not die,<br>As live but one, Lucasta! why----<br>As he Lucasta nam'd, a groan<br>Strangles the fainting passing tone;<br>But as she heard, Lucasta smiles,<br>Posses her round; she's slipt mean whiles<br>Behind the blind of a thick bush,<br>When, each word temp'ring with a blush,<br>She gently thus bespake; Sad swaine,<br>If mates in woe do ease our pain,<br>Here's one full of that antick grief,<br>Which stifled would for ever live,<br>But told, expires; pray then, reveale<br>(To show our wound is half to heale),<br>What mortall nymph or deity<br>Bewail you thus? Who ere you be,<br>The shepheard sigh't, my woes I crave<br>Smotherd in me, me in my grave;<br>Yet be in show or truth a saint,<br>Or fiend, breath anthemes, heare my plaint,<br>For her and thy breath's symphony,<br>Which now makes full the harmony<br>Above, and to whose voice the spheres<br>Listen, and call her musick theirs;<br>This was I blest on earth with, so<br>As Druids amorous did grow,<br>Jealous of both: for as one day<br>This star, as yet but set in clay,<br>By an imbracing river lay,<br>They steept her in the hollowed brooke,<br>Which from her humane nature tooke,<br>And straight to heaven with winged feare,<br>Thus, ravisht with her, ravish her.<br> The nymph reply'd: This holy rape<br>Became the gods, whose obscure shape<br>They cloth'd with light, whilst ill you grieve<br>Your better life should ever live,<br>And weep that she, to whom you wish<br>What heav'n could give, has all its blisse.<br>Calling her angell here, yet be<br>Sad at this true divinity:<br>She's for the altar, not the skies,<br>Whom first you crowne, then sacrifice.<br> Fond man thus to a precipice<br>Aspires, till at the top his eyes<br>Have lost the safety of the plain,<br>Then begs of Fate the vales againe.<br> The now confounded shepheard cries:<br>Ye all-confounding destines!<br>How did you make that voice so sweet<br>Without that glorious form to it?<br>Thou sacred spirit of my deare,<br>Where e're thou hoverst o're us, hear!<br>Imbark thee in the lawrell tree,<br>And a new Phebus follows thee,<br>Who, 'stead of all his burning rayes,<br>Will strive to catch thee with his layes;<br>Or, if within the Orient Vine,<br>Thou art both deity and wine;<br>But if thou takest the mirtle grove,<br>That Paphos is, thou, Queene of Love,<br>And I, thy swain who (else) must die,<br>By no beasts, but thy cruelty:<br>But you are rougher than the winde.<br>Are souls on earth then heav'n more kind?<br>Imprisoned in mortality<br>Lucasta would have answered me.<br>Lucasta, Amarantha said,<br>Is she that virgin-star? a maid,<br>Except her prouder livery,<br>In beauty poore, and cheap as I;<br>Whose glory like a meteor shone,<br>Or aery apparition,<br>Admir'd a while, but slighted known.<br> Fierce, as the chafed lyon hies,<br>He rowses him, and to her flies,<br>Thinking to answer with his speare----<br> Now, as in warre intestine where,<br>Ith' mist of a black battell, each<br>Layes at his next, then makes a breach<br>Through th' entrayles of another, whom<br>He sees nor knows whence he did come,<br>Guided alone by rage and th' drumme,<br>But stripping and impatient wild,<br>He finds too soon his onely child.<br> So our expiring desp'rate lover<br>Far'd when, amaz'd, he did discover<br>Lucasta in this nymph; his sinne<br>Darts the accursed javelin<br>'Gainst his own breast, which she puts by<br>With a soft lip and gentle eye,<br>Then closes with him on the ground<br>And now her smiles have heal'd his wound.<br>Alexis too again is found;<br>But not untill those heavy crimes<br>She hath kis'd off a thousand times,<br>Who not contented with this pain,<br>Doth threaten to offend again.<br> And now they gaze, and sigh, and weep,<br>Whilst each cheek doth the other's steep,<br>Whilst tongues, as exorcis'd, are calm;<br>Onely the rhet'rick of the palm<br>Prevailing pleads, untill at last<br>They[re] chain'd in one another fast.<br>Lucasta to him doth relate<br>Her various chance and diffring fate:<br>How chac'd by Hydraphil, and tract<br>The num'rous foe to Philanact,<br>Who whilst they for the same things fight,<br>As Bards decrees and Druids rite,<br>For safeguard of their proper joyes<br>And shepheards freedome, each destroyes<br>The glory of this Sicilie;<br>Since seeking thus the remedie,<br>They fancy (building on false ground)<br>The means must them and it confound,<br>Yet are resolved to stand or fall,<br>And win a little, or lose all.<br> From this sad storm of fire and blood<br>She fled to this yet living wood;<br>Where she 'mongst savage beasts doth find<br>Her self more safe then humane kind.<br> Then she relates, how Caelia--<br>The lady--here strippes her array,<br>And girdles her in home-spunne bayes<br>Then makes her conversant in layes<br>Of birds, and swaines more innocent,<br>That kenne not guile [n]or courtship ment.<br> Now walks she to her bow'r to dine<br>Under a shade of Eglantine,<br>Upon a dish of Natures cheere<br>Which both grew, drest and serv'd up there:<br>That done, she feasts her smell with po'ses<br>Pluckt from the damask cloath of Roses.<br>Which there continually doth stay,<br>And onely frost can take away;<br>Then wagers which hath most content<br>Her eye, eare, hand, her gust or sent.<br> Intranc't Alexis sees and heares,<br>As walking above all the spheres:<br>Knows and adores this, and is wilde,<br>Untill with her he live thus milde.<br>So that, which to his thoughts he meant<br>For losse of her a punishment,<br>His armes hung up and his sword broke,<br>His ensignes folded, he betook<br>Himself unto the humble crook.<br>And for a full reward of all,<br>She now doth him her shepheard call,<br>And in a see of flow'rs install:<br>Then gives her faith immediately,<br>Which he returns religiously;<br>Both vowing in her peacefull cave<br>To make their bridall-bed and grave.<br> But the true joy this pair conceiv'd,<br>Each from the other first bereav'd,<br>And then found, after such alarmes,<br>Fast-pinion'd in each other's armes,<br>Ye panting virgins, that do meet<br>Your loves within their winding sheet,<br>Breathing and constant still ev'n there;<br>Or souls their bodies in yon' sphere,<br>Or angels, men return'd from hell<br>And separated mindes--can tell.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br /></a><br />poem by <a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/by.php?a=Richard+Lovelace">Richard Lovelace</a><div class=q> <img src="https://www.citatepedia.ro/g/32share.png" style="float:left" alt="Share"> <script type="text/javascript" src="//s7.addthis.com/js/300/addthis_widget.js#pubid=citatepedia" async="async"></script><div style="display:inline-block" class="addthis_sharing_toolbox" data-url="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=498944" data-title="Amarantha. A Pastorall de Richard Lovelace" data-description="Up with the jolly bird of light Who sounds his third retreat to night; Faire Amarantha from her bed Ashamed starts, and rises red As the carnation-mantled morne, Who now the blushing robe doth spurne, And puts on angry gray, whilst she, The envy o..."></div> </div> </div>

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