No More Learning

Than that unwonted gi^eatness wears ;
Height with a certain grace does bend.
But low things clownishly ascend.
And yet what need there here excuse.
Where every thing does answer use ?
"Where neatness nothing can condemn,.
Nor pride invent what to contemn ?
A stately frontispiece of poor,.
Adorns without the open door ;
Daily new furniture of friends.
No less the rooms within commends*
The house was built upon the place.
Only as for a mark of grace.
And for an inn to entertain
Its Lord awhile, but not remain.
Him Bishop's-hill or Denton may,
Or Bilborow, better hold than they :
But nature here hath been so free,
As if she said, ' Leave this to me.



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10 THE POEMS .

Art would more neatly have defae'd
What she had laid so sweetly waste
In fragrant gardens, shady woods,
Deep meadows, and transparent floods.

While, with slow eyes, we these survey.
And on each pleasant footstep stay,
We opportunely may relate
The progress of this house's fate.
A nunnery first gave it birth,
(For virgin buildings oft brought forth,)
And all that neighbour-ruin shows
The quarries whence this dwelling rose.
Near to this gloomy cloister's gates.
There dwelt the blooming virgin Thwates,
Fair beyond measure, and an heir,
Which might deformity make fair ;
And oft she spent the summer's suns
Discoursing with the subtle Nuns,
Whence, in these words, one to her weav'd,
As 'twere by chance, thoughts long conceiv'd :
' Within this holy leisure, we

* Live innocently, as you see.

' These walls restrain the world without,
' But hedge our liberty about ;

* These bars inclose that wider den

' Of those wild creatures, called men ;
' The cloister outward shuts its gates,

* And, from us, locks on them the grates.
' Here we, in shining armour white,



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OF MARVELL. 11

* Like virgin amazons do fight,

* And our chaste lamps we hourly trim,

* Lest the great bridegroom find them dim.

* Our orient breaths perfumed are

* With incense of incessant prayV ; iw

* And holy-water of our tears

' Most strangely our complexion clears ;

* Not tears of grief, — but such as those

* With which calm pleasure overflows,

* Or pity, when we look on you n»

* That live without this happy vow.

* How should we grieve must we be seen,
^ (Each one a spouse, and each a queen,)

* Who can in heaven hence behold

* Our brighter robes and crowns of gold! i»

* When we have prayed all our beads,

* Some one the holy legend reads,

* While all the rest with needles paint

* The face and graces of the Saint,

* But what the linen can't receive, t»

* They in their lives do interweave.

* This work the Saints best represents

* That serves for altar's ornaments.

* But much it to our work would add,

* If here your hand, your face, we had : i3o

* By it we would our Lady touch ;

* Yet thus she you resembles much.

* Some of your features, as we sewed,

* Through every shrine should be bestow'd,

* And in one beauty we would take »»



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12 THE P0E3IS

^ Enough a thousand Saints to make.

* And (for I dare not quench the fire

* That me does for your good inspire)

* 'Twere sacrilege a man to admit

* To holy things, for heaven fit.

* I see the angels, in a crown,

* On you the lilies showering down ;

* And TOund about you, glory breaks,

* That something more than human speaks.

* All beauty, when at such a height,

* Is so already consecrate.