: The Real Latin Quarter by Smith F Berkeley Frank Berkeley Smith F Berkeley Frank Berkeley Illustrator Smith Francis Hopkinson Illustrator - Quartier latin (Paris France)

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Transcriber's Note: Variable spelling and hyphenation have been retained from the original printing. Some minor errors in punctuation and capitalisation have been corrected, and some changes to the text are listed at the end.

Wherein the excellence of sweete Poesie is concluded.

Not at first sight, nor with a dribbing shot, Love gave the wound, which while I breath will bleede: But knowne, worth did in mine of time proceede, Till by degrees it had full conquest got. I sawe and lik'd, I lik'd but loved not, I lov'd, but did not straight what Love decreede: At length to Loves decrees, I forst agreede: Yet with repining at so partiall lot. Now even that foot-steppe of lost libertie Is gone, and now like slave borne Muscovite: I call it praise to suffer tyrannie, And now imploy the remnant of my wit To make my selfe believe that all is well, While with a feeling skill I paint my hell.

Alas, have I not paine enough my friend, Uppon whose breast, a fiercer gripe doth tyre, Than did on him, who first stole downe the fyre; While Love on me, doth all his quiver spend, But with your rubarbe wordes you must contend, To greeve me worse in saying, that desier Doth plunge my well form'd soule, even in the mier Of sinfull thoughtes, which doe in ruine ende. If that be sinne which doth the manners frame, Well stayed with trueth, in worde and faith of deede, Readie of wit, and fearing nought but shame; If it be sin which in fixt hart dooth breede, A loathing of all lose unchastitie; Then love is sin, and let me sinfull bee.

Fly, flye my friends, I have my deathes wound, flye; See there that boy, that murthering boy I say, Who like a thiefe hid in a bush doth lye, Tyll blooddy bullet get him wrongfull pray. So, tyrant he no fitter place could spy, Nor so farre levell in so secrete stay: As that sweete blacke which veiles thy heavenly eye. There himselfe with his shot he close doth laye. Poore passenger, passe now thereby I did, And staid pleasd with prospect of the place, While that black hue from me the bad guest hid, But straight I saw motions of lightnings grace, And there descried the glisterings of his dart: But ere I could flie thence, it pearst my hart.

With how sad steps ? Moone thou clim'st the skyes, How silently, and with how meane a face, What may it be, that even in heavenly place, That busie Archer his sharpe Arrowes tryes? Sure if that long with love acquainted eyes Can judge of love, thou feelst of Lovers case, I reade within thy lookes thy languisht grace. To mee that feele the like, my state discries. Then even of fellowship ? Moone tell me, Is constant love deemde there but want of wit? Are beauties there, as proude as here there be? Doe they above, love to be lov'd, and yet Those Lovers scorne, whom that love doth possesse? Doe they call vertue there ungratefulnesse?

What, have I thus betraide my libertie, Can those black beames, such burning marks engrave In my free side, or am I borne a slave, Whose necke becomes such yoke of tyrannie? Or want I sence to feele my miserie, Or spirit, disdaine of such disdaine to have, Who for long faith the daily helpe I crave, May get no almes, but scorne of beggerie. Vertue awake, beautie but beautie is; I may, I must, I can, I will, I doe Leave following that which it is gaine to misse, Let her goe: soft, but there she comes, goe to, Unkind I love you, not, that eye Doth make my hart give to my tongue a lye.

I on my horse, and Love on me doth trie Our horsmanship, while by strange worke I prove, A horsman to my horse, a horse to Love; And now mans wrongs in me poore beast discry. The raines wherewith my ryder doth me tie Are reverent thoughts, which bit of reverence move, Curbde in with feare, but with gilt bosse above Of hope, which makes it seeme faire to the eye: The wande is will, thou fancie saddle art, Girt fast by memorie; and while I spurre My horse, he spurres with sharpe desires my hart, He sits me fast how ever I doe sturre, And now hath made me to his hand so right, That in the manage, my selfe do take delight.

Oh how the pleasant ayres of true love bee Inflicted by those vapours, which arise From out that noysome gulfe: which gaping lies Betweene the jawes of hellish Jelousey. A Monster, others harmes, selfe misery. Beauties plague, Vertues scurge, succour of lyes: Who his owne joy to his owne heart applyes, And onely cherish doth with injuries: Who since he hath by natures speciall grace, So pearsing pawes as spoyle when they embrace, So nimble feete as stirre though still on thornes, So manie eyes aye seeking their owne woe. So ample eares, that never good newes knowe, Is it not ill that such a divell wants hornes?

Nymph of the garden where all beauties be, Beauties which do in excellencie passe, His who till death lockt in a watry glasse, Or hirs whom nak'd the Trojan boy did see. Sweete garden Nymph that keepes the Cherrie tree, Whose fruit doth far the Hesperian tast surpasse, Most sweete faire, most faire sweete, do not alasse From comming neere these Cherries banish mee, For though full of desire, emptie of wit, Admitted late by your best graced grace, I caught at one of them an hungry bit, Pardon that fault, once more graunt me the place, And so I sweare even by the same delite, I will but kisse, I never more will bite.

I see the house my harte thy selfe containe, Beware full Sailes drown not thy tottering Barge, Least joy by nature apt, Thee to thy wracke beyond thy limits straine, Nor doe like Lords whose weake confused braine, Not pointing to fit folks each undercharge, While every office themselves will discharge, With doing all leave nothing done but paine, But give apt servants their due place; let eye See beauties totall summe summ'd in their face, Let eares heare speach which will to wonder tye, Let breath suck up those sweetes, let armes imbrace The Globe of weale, lipps Lov's Indentures make. Thou but of all the kingly tribute take.

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