Katherine Philips

I did not live until this time Crowned my felicity, When I could say without a crime, I am not thine, but thee. This carcass breathed, and walked, and slept, So that the world believed There was a soul the motions kept; But they were all deceived. For as a watch by art is wound To motion, such was mine: But never had Orinda found A soul till she found thine; Which now inspires, cures and supplies, And guides my darkened breast: For thou art all that I can prize, My joy, my life, my rest. No bridegroom’s nor crown-conqueror’s mirth To mine compared can be: They have but pieces of the earth, I’ve all the world in thee. Then let our flames still light and shine, And no false fear control, As innocent as our design, Immortal as our soul.

’Tis now since I began to die Four months, yet still I gasping live; Wrapp’d up in sorrow do I lie, Hoping, yet doubting a reprieve. Adam from Paradise expell’d Just such a wretched being held. ’Tis not thy love I fear to lose, That will in spite of absence hold; But ’tis the benefit and use Is lost, as in imprison’d gold: Which though the sum be ne’er so great, Enriches nothing but conceit. What angry star then governs me That I must feel a double smart, Prisoner to fate as well as thee; Kept from thy face, link’d to thy heart? Because my love all love excels, Must my grief have no parallels? Sapless and dead as Winter here I now remain, and all I see Copies of my wild state appear, But I am their epitome. Love me no more, for I am grown Too dead and dull for thee to own.

Nature, which is the vast creation’s soul, That steady curious agent in the whole, The art of Heaven, the order of this frame, Is only number in another name. For as some king conqu’ring what was his own, Hath choice of several titles to his crown; So harmony on this score now, that then, Yet still is all that takes and governs men. Beauty is but composure, and we find Content is but the concord of the mind, Friendship the unison of well-turned hearts, Honor the chorus of the noblest parts, And all the world on which we can reflect Music to th’ear, or to the intellect. If then each man a little world must be, How many worlds are copied out in thee, Who art so richly formed, so complete T’epitomize all that is good and great; Whose stars this brave advantage did impart, Thy nature’s as harmonious as thy art? Thou dost above the poets’ praises live, Who fetch from thee th’eternity they give. And as true reason triumphs over sense, Yet is subjected to intelligence: So poets on the lower world look down, But Lawes on them; his height is all his own. For, like Divinity it self, his lyre Rewards the wit it did at first inspire. And thus by double right poets allow His and their laurel should adorn his brow. Live then, great soul of nature, to assuage The savage dulness of this sullen age. Charm us to sense; for though experience fail And reason too, thy numbers may prevail. Then, like those ancients, strike, and so command All nature to obey thy gen’rous hand. None will resist but such who needs will be More stupid than a stone, a fish, a tree. Be it thy care our age to new-create: What built a world may sure repair a state.

If honor to an ancient name be due, Or riches challenge it for one that’s new, The British language claims in either sense Both for its age, and for its opulence. But all great things must be from us removed, To be with higher reverence beloved. So landskips which in prospects distant lie, With greater wonder draw the pleasèd eye. Is not great Troy to one dark ruin hurled? Once the fam’d scene of all fighting world. Where’s Athens now, to whom Rome learning owes, And the safe laurels that adorned her brows? A strange reverse of fate she did endure, Never once greater, than she’s now obscure. Even Rome her self can but some footsteps show Of Scipio’s times, or those of Cicero. And as the Roman and the Grecian state, The British fell, the spoil of time and fate. But though the language hath the beauty lost, Yet she has still some great remains to boast. For ’twas in that, the sacred bards of old, In deathless numbers did their thoughts unfold. In groves, by rivers, and on fertile plains, They civilized and taught the listening swains; Whilst with high raptures, and as great success, Virtue they clothed in music’s charming dress. This Merlin spoke, who in his gloomy cave, Even Destiny her self seemed to enslave. For to his sight the future time was known, Much better than to others is their own; And with such state, predictions from him fell, As if he did decree, and not foretell. This spoke King Arthur, who, if fame be true, Could have compelled mankind to speak it too. In this once Boadicca valor taught, And spoke more nobly than her soldiers fought: Tell me what hero could be more than she, Who fell at once for fame and liberty? Nor could a greater sacrifice belong, Or to her children’s, or her country’s wrong. This spoke Caractacus, who was so brave, That to the Roman fortune check he gave: And when their yoke he could decline no more, He it so decently and nobly wore, That Rome her self with blushes did believe, A Britain would the law of honor give; And hastily his chains away she threw, Lest her own captive else should her subdue.

1 Come, my Lucasia , since we see That Miracles Mens faith do move, By wonder and by prodigy To the dull angry world let’s prove There’s a Religion in our Love. 2 For though we were design’d t’ agree, That Fate no liberty destroyes, But our Election is as free As Angels, who with greedy choice Are yet determin’d to their joyes. 3 Our hearts are doubled by the loss, Here Mixture is Addition grown ; We both diffuse, and both ingross : And we whose minds are so much one, Never, yet ever are alone. 4 We court our own Captivity Than Thrones more great and innocent : ’Twere banishment to be set free, Since we wear fetters whose intent Not Bondage is, but Ornament. 5 Divided joyes are tedious found, And griefs united easier grow : We are our selves but by rebound, And all our Titles shuffled so, Both Princes, and both Subjects too. 6 Our Hearts are mutual Victims laid, While they (such power in Friendship lies) Are Altars, Priests, and Off’rings made : And each Heart which thus kindly dies, Grows deathless by the Sacrifice.

On her Son H.P. at St. Syth’s Church where her body also lies interred What on Earth deserves our trust? Youth and Beauty both are dust. Long we gathering are with pain, What one moment calls again. Seven years childless marriage past, A Son, a son is born at last: So exactly lim’d and fair, Full of good Spirits, Meen, and Air, As a long life promised, Yet, in less than six weeks dead. Too promising, too great a mind In so small room to be confined: Therefore, as fit in Heaven to dwell, He quickly broke the Prison shell. So the subtle Alchemist, Can’t with Hermes Seal resist The powerful spirit’s subtler flight, But t’will bid him long good night. And so the Sun if it arise Half so glorious as his Eyes, Like this Infant, takes a shrowd, Buried in a morning Cloud.

Forbear, bold youth, all’s Heaven here, And what you do aver, To others, courtship may appear, ’Tis sacriledge to her. She is a publick deity, And were’t not very odd She should depose her self to be A pretty household god? First make the sun in private shine, And bid the world adieu, That so he may his beams confine In complement to you. But if of that you do despair, Think how you did amiss, To strive to fix her beams which are More bright and large than this.