Depose Your Finger of That Ring

I.

Depose your finger of that ring,
And crowne mine with't awhile;
Now I restor't. Pray, dos it bring
Back with it more of soile?
Or shines it not as innocent,
As honest, as before 'twas lent?

II.

So then inrich me with that treasure,
'Twill but increase your store,
And please me (faire one) with that pleasure
Must please you still the more.
Not to save others is a curse
The blackest, when y'are ne're the worse.

poem by Richard Lovelace
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Ad Juvencium. Cat. Ep. 49.

AD JUVENCIUM. CAT. EP. 49.

Mellitos oculos tuos, Juvenci,
Si quis me sinat usque basiare,
Usque ad millia basiem trecenta;
Nec unquam videat satur futurus:
Non si densior aridis aristis,
Sit nostrae seges osculationis.

TO JUVENCIUS.

Juvencius, thy fair sweet eyes
If to my fill that I may kisse,
Three hundred thousand times I'de kisse,
Nor future age should cloy this blisse;
No, not if thicker than ripe ears
The harvest of our kisses bears.

poem by Richard Lovelace
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Senecae Ex Cleanthe

SENECAE EX CLEANTHE.

Duc me, Parens celsique Dominator poli,
Quocunque placuit, nulla parendi mora est;
Adsum impiger; fac nolle, comitabor gemens,
Malusque patiar facere, quod licuit bono.
Ducunt volentem Fata, nolentem trahunt.

ENGLISHED.

Parent and Prince of Heav'n, O lead, I pray,
Where ere you please, I follow and obey.
Active I go, sighing, if you gainsay,
And suffer bad what to the good was law.
Fates lead the willing, but unwilling draw.

poem by Richard Lovelace
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A La Chabot

A LA CHABOT.

Object adorable et charmant!
Mes souspirs et mes pleurs tesmoignent mon torment;
Mais mon respect m'empeche de parler.
Ah! que peine dissimuler!
Et que je souffre de martyre,
D'aimer et de n'oser le dire!

TO THE SAME AYRE IN ENGLISH, THUS,

Object adorable of charms!
My sighs and tears may testifie my harms;
But my respect forbids me to reveal.
Ah, what a pain 'tis to conceal!
And how I suffer worse then hell,
To love, and not to dare to tell!

poem by Richard Lovelace
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The Vintage to the Dungeon

I.

Sing out, pent soules, sing cheerefully!
Care shackles you in liberty:
Mirth frees you in captivity.
Would you double fetters adde?
Else why so sadde?

Besides your pinion'd armes youl finde
Griefe too can manakell the minde.

II.

Live then, pris'ners, uncontrol'd;
Drink oth' strong, the rich, the old,
Till wine too hath your wits in hold;
Then if still your jollitie
And throats are free--

Tryumph in your bonds and paines,

[...] Read more

poem by Richard Lovelace
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A La Bourbon. Done Moy Plus De Pitie Ou Plus De Creaulte, Car Sans Ci Ie Ne Puis Pas Viure, Ne Morir

I.
Divine Destroyer, pitty me no more,
Or else more pitty me;
Give me more love, ah, quickly give me more,
Or else more cruelty!
For left thus as I am,
My heart is ice and flame;
And languishing thus, I
Can neither live nor dye!

II.
Your glories are eclipst, and hidden in the grave
Of this indifferency;
And, Caelia, you can neither altars have,
Nor I, a Diety:
They are aspects divine,
That still or smile, or shine,
Or, like th' offended sky,
Frowne death immediately.

poem by Richard Lovelace
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The Vintage To The Dungeon. A Song

I.
Sing out, pent soules, sing cheerefully!
Care shackles you in liberty:
Mirth frees you in captivity.
Would you double fetters adde?
Else why so sadde?

Chorus.
Besides your pinion'd armes youl finde
Griefe too can manakell the minde.

II.
Live then, pris'ners, uncontrol'd;
Drink oth' strong, the rich, the old,
Till wine too hath your wits in hold;
Then if still your jollitie
And throats are free--

Chorus.
Tryumph in your bonds and paines,

[...] Read more

poem by Richard Lovelace
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Theophile Being Deny'd His Addresses To King James, Turned

THEOPHILE BEING DENY'D HIS ADDRESSES TO KING JAMES,
TURNED THE AFFRONT TO HIS OWN GLORY IN THIS EPIGRAM.

Si Jaques, le Roy du scavior,
Ne trouue bon de me voir,
Voila la cause infallible!
Car, ravy de mon escrit,
Il creut, que j'estois tout esprit
Et par consequent invisible.

LINEALLY TRANSLATED OUT OF THE FRENCH.

If James, the king of wit,
To see me thought not fit,
Sure this the cause hath been,
That, ravish'd with my merit,
He thought I was all spirit,
And so not to be seen.

poem by Richard Lovelace
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Theophile Being Deny'd His Addresses To King James, Turned The Affront To His Own Glory In This Epigram

THEOPHILE BEING DENY'D HIS ADDRESSES TO KING JAMES,
TURNED THE AFFRONT TO HIS OWN GLORY IN THIS EPIGRAM.

Si Jaques, le Roy du scavior,
Ne trouue bon de me voir,
Voila la cause infallible!
Car, ravy de mon escrit,
Il creut, que j'estois tout esprit
Et par consequent invisible.

LINEALLY TRANSLATED OUT OF THE FRENCH.

If James, the king of wit,
To see me thought not fit,
Sure this the cause hath been,
That, ravish'd with my merit,
He thought I was all spirit,
And so not to be seen.

poem by Richard Lovelace
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To Lucasta, Like the Sentinel Stars

I.

Like to the sent'nel stars, I watch all night;
For still the grand round of your light
And glorious breast
Awake in me an east:
Nor will my rolling eyes ere know a west.

II.

Now on my down I'm toss'd as on a wave,
And my repose is made my grave;
Fluttering I lye,
Do beat my self and dye,
But for a resurrection from your eye.

III.

Ah, my fair murdresse! dost thou cruelly heal
With various pains to make me well?

[...] Read more

poem by Richard Lovelace
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