Duchess of Newcastle Margaret Cavendish

In gardens sweet each flower mark did I, How they did spring, bud, blow, wither and die. With that, contemplating of man's short stay, Saw man like to those flowers pass away. Yet built he houses, thick and strong and high, As if he'd live to all Eternity. Hoards up a mass of wealth, yet cannot fill His empty mind, but covet will he still. To gain or keep, such falsehood will he use! Wrong, right or truth—no base ways will refuse. I would not blame him could he death out keep, Or ease his pains or be secure of sleep: Or buy Heaven's mansions—like the gods become, And with his gold rule stars and moon and sun: Command the winds to blow, seas to obey, Level their waves and make their breezes stay. But he no power hath unless to die, And care in life is only misery. This care is but a word, an empty sound, Wherein there is no soul nor substance found; Yet as his heir he makes it to inherit, And all he has he leaves unto this spirit. To get this Child of Fame and this bare word, He fears no dangers, neither fire nor sword: All horrid pains and death he will endure, Or any thing can he but fame procure. O man, O man, what high ambition grows Within his brain, and yet how low he goes! To be contented only with a sound, Wherein is neither peace nor life nor body found.

Her hair was curls of Pleasure and Delight, Which on her brow did cast a glistening light. As lace her bashful eyelids downward hung: A modest countenance o'er her face was flung: Blushes, as coral beads, she strung to wear About her neck, and pendants for each ear: Her gown was by Proportion cut and made, With veins embroidered, with complexion laid, Rich jewels of pure honor she did wear, By noble actions brightened everywhere: Thus dressed, to Fame's great court straightways she went, To dance a brawl with Youth, Love, Mirth, Content.

Sir Charles into my chamber coming in, When I was writing of my ‘Fairy Queen;’ ‘I pray’—said he—‘when Queen Mab you do see Present my service to her Majesty: And tell her I have heard Fame's loud report Both of her beauty and her stately court.’ When I Queen Mab within my fancy viewed, My thoughts bowed low, fearing I should be rude; Kissing her garment thin which fancy made, I knelt upon a thought, like one that prayed; And then, in whispers soft, I did present His humble service which in mirth was sent; Thus by imagination I have been In Fairy court and seen the Fairy Queen.

A Poet am I neither born nor bred, But to a witty poet married: Whose brain is fresh and pleasant as the Spring, Where Fancies grow and where the Muses sing. There oft I lean my head, and listening, hark, To catch his words and all his fancies mark: And from that garden show of beauties take Whereof a posy I in verse may make. Thus I, that have no gardens of my own, There gather flowers that are newly blown.

I language want to dress my fancies in, The hair's uncurled, the garment's loose and thin. Had they but silver lace to make them gay, They'd be more courted than in poor array; Or, had they art, would make a better show; But they are plain; yet cleanly do they go. The world in bravery doth take delight, And glistering shows do more attract the sight: And every one doth honor a rich hood, As if the outside made the inside good. And every one doth bow and give the place, Not for the man's sake but the silver lace. Let me intreat in my poor book's behalf, That all will not adore the golden calf. Consider, pray, gold hath no life therein, And life, in nature, is the richest thing. Be just, let Fancy have the upper place, And then my verses may perchance find grace.