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 fetter'd to her eye,

The gods, that wanton in the air,

Know no such liberty.

When flowing cups run swiftly round

With no allaying Thames,

Our careless heads with roses bound,

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.

Richard Lovelace

To Lucasta, Going to the Wars

TELL me not, sweet, I am unkind

That from nunnery

Of thy chaste breast and quiet mind,

To war and arms I fly.

True, a mew 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 you too shall adore;

I could not love thee, dear, so much,

Loved I not honor more.

Richard Lovelace

To Lucasta, From Prison

LONG in thy Shackels, liberty,

I ask not from these walls, but thee;

Left for a while another's Bride

To fancy all the world beside.

Yet e're I do begin to love,

See! How I all my objects prove;

Then my free Soul to that confine,

'Twere possible I might call mine.

First I would be in love with Peace,

And her rich swelling breasts increase;

But how alas! how may that be,

Despising Earth, will she love me?

Fain would I be in love with War,

As my dear just avenging star

But War is lov'd so ev'ry where,

Ev'n he disdains a lodging here.

Thee and thy wounds I would bemoan

Fair thorough-shot Religion;

But he lives only that kills thee,

ANd who so binds thy hands, is free.

I would love a Parliament

As a main Prop from Heav'n sent;

But ah! who's he that would be wedded

To th' fairest body that's beheaded?

Next would I court my Liberty,

And then my birth-right Property;

But can that be, when in is known

There's nothing you can call your own?

A Reformation I would have,

As for our griefs a Sov'reign salve;

That is, a cleansing of each wheel

Of State, that yet some rust doth feel:

But not a Reformation so,

As to reform were to ore'throw;

Like watches by unskilfull men

Disjointed, and set ill again.

The Public Faith I would adore,

But she is bankrupt of her store;

Nor how to trust her can I see,

For she that couzens all, must me.

Since then none of these can be

Fit objects for my Love and me;

What then remains, but th' only spring

Of all our loves and joyes? The King.

He who being the whole ball

Of day on Earth, lends it to all;

When seeking to eclipse his right,

Blinded, we stand in our own light.

And now in universal mist

Of Error is spread or'e each breast,

With such a fury edg'd, as is

Not found in th' inwards of th' Abyss.

Oh from thy glorious starry waine

Dispense on me one sacred beam

To light me where I soon may see

How to serve you, and you trust me.

Richard Lovelace

The Scrutiny

WHY should you swear I am forsworn,

Since thine I vowed to be?

Lady, it is already morn,

And 'twas last night I swore to thee

That fond impossibility.

Have I not loved thee much and long,

A tedious twelve hours' space?

I must all other beauties wrong

And rob thee of a new embrace,

Could I still dote upon thy face.

Not but all joy in thy brown hair

By others may be found;

But I must search the black and fair,

Like skillful mineralists that sound

For treasure in unplowed-up ground.

Then, if when I have loved my round,

Thou prov'st the pleasant she,

With spoils of meaner beauties crowned

I laden will return to thee,

Ev'n sated with variety.

Richard Lovelace

To Amarantha, That She Would Dishevel Her Hair

ARAMANTHA 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 o'er that spicy nest.

Ev'ry tress must be confessed

But neatly tangled at the best,

Like a clue of golden thread,

Most excellently raveled.

Do not then wind up that light

In ribbons, and o'ercloud in night;

Like the sun in's early ray,

But shake your head and scatter day.

See, 'tis broke! Within this grove,

The bower and the walks of love,

Weary down we lie and rest,

And fan each other's panting breast.

Here we'll strip and cool our fire

In cream below, in milk-baths higher;

And when all wells are drawn dry,

I'll drink a tear out of thine eye.

Which our very joys shall leave,

That sorrows thus we can deceive;

Or our very sorrows weep,

That joys so ripe, so little keep.

Richard Lovelace