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Best Famous Anne Killigrew Poems

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Written by Anne Killigrew | |


 WAnton Bellinda loudly does complain, 
I've chang'd my Love of late into disdain: 

Calls me unconstant, cause I now adore
The chast Marcella, that lov'd her before.
Sin or Dishonour, me as well may blame, That I repent, or do avoid a shame.

Written by Anne Killigrew | |

The Third Epigram. (On an ATHEIST)

 POsthumus boasts he does not Thunder fear, 
And for this cause would Innocent appear; 
That in his Soul no Terrour he does feel, 
At threatn'd Vultures, or Ixion's Wheel, 
Which fright the Guilty: But when Fabius told
What Acts 'gainst Murder lately were enrol'd, 
'Gainst Incest, Rapine, ---- straight upon the Tale
His Colour chang'd, and Posthumus grew pale.
His Impious Courage had no other Root, But that the Villaine, Atheist was to boot.

Written by Anne Killigrew | |

A Pastoral Dialogue.

SAbæan Perfumes fragrant Roses bring, With all the Flowers that Paint the gaudy Spring: Scatter them all in young Alexis's way, With all that's sweet and (like himself) that's Gay.
Immortal Laurels and as lasting Praise, Crown the divine Dorinda's matchless Laies: May all Hearts stoop, where mine would gladly yield, Had not Lycoris prepossest the Field.
Would my Alexis meet my noble Flame, In all Ausonia neither Youth nor Dame, Should so renown'd in Deathless Numbers shine, As thy exalted Name should do in mine.
He'll need no Trophie nor ambitious Hearse, Who shall be honour'd by Dorinda's Verse; But where it is inscrib'd, That here doth lie Lycoris's Love.
That Fame can never die.
On Tyber's Bank I Thyrsis did espie, And by his side did bright Lycoris lie; She Crown'd his Head, and Kist his amorous Brow, Ah Poor Alexis! Ah then where wer't thou? Alex.
When thou saw'st that, I ne'r had seen my Fair, And what pas'd then ought not to be my Care; I liv'd not then, but first began to be, When I Lycoris Lov'd, and she Lov'd me.
Ah choose a Faith, a Faith that's like thine own, A Virgin Love, a Love that's newly blown: 'Tis not enough a Maidens Heart is chast, It must be Single, and not once mis-plac't.
Thus do our Priests of Heavenly Pastures tell, Eternal Groves, all Earthly, that excel: And think to wean us from our Loves below, By dazling Objects which we cannot know.

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Written by Anne Killigrew | |

On Death.

 TEll me thou safest End of all our Woe, 
Why wreched Mortals do avoid thee so: 
Thou gentle drier o'th' afflicteds Tears, 
Thou noble ender of the Cowards Fears; 
Thou sweet Repose to Lovers sad dispaire, 
Thou Calm t'Ambitions rough Tempestuous Care.
If in regard of Bliss thou wert a Curse, And then the Joys of Paradise art worse; Yet after Man from his first Station fell, And God from Eden Adam did expel, Thou wert no more an Evil, but Relief; The Balm and Cure to ev'ry Humane Grief: Through thee (what Man had forfeited before) He now enjoys, and ne'r can loose it more.
No subtile Serpents in the Grave betray, Worms on the Body there, not Soul do prey; No Vice there Tempts, no Terrors there afright, No Coz'ning Sin affords a false delight: No vain Contentions do that Peace annoy, No feirce Alarms break the lasting Joy.
Ah since from thee so many Blessings flow, Such real Good as Life can never know; Come when thou wilt, in thy afrighting'st Dress, Thy Shape shall never make thy Welcome less.
Thou mayst to Joy, but ne'er to Fear give Birth, Thou Best, as well as Certain'st thing on Earth.
Fly thee? May Travellers then fly their Rest, And hungry Infants fly the profer'd Brest.
No, those that faint and tremble at thy Name, Fly from their Good on a mistaken Fame.
Thus Childish fear did Israel of old From Plenty and the Promis'd Land with-hold; They fancy'd Giants, and refus'd to go, When Canaan did with Milk and Honey flow.

Written by Anne Killigrew | |

First EPIGRAM. (Upon being Contented with a Little)

 WE deem them moderate, but Enough implore, 
What barely will suffice, and ask no more: 
Who say, (O Jove) a competency give, 
Neither in Luxury, or Want we'd live.
But what is that, which these Enough do call? If both the Indies unto some should fall, Such Wealth would yet Enough but onely be, And what they'd term not Want, or Luxury.
Among the Suits, O Jove, my humbler take; A little give, I that Enough will make.

Written by Anne Killigrew | |

The Fourth EPIGRAM. (On GALLA)

 NOw liquid Streams by the fierce Gold do grow
As solid as the Rocks from whence they flow; 
Now Tibers Banks with Ice united meet, 
And it's firm Stream may well be term'd its Street; 
Now Vot'ries 'fore the Shrines like Statues show, 
And scarce the Men from Images we know; 
Now Winters Palsey seizes ev'ry Age, 
And none's so warm, but feels the Seasons Rage; 
Even the bright Lillies and triumphant Red
Which o're Corinna's youthful cheeks are spred, 
Look pale and bleak, and shew a purple hew, 
And Violets staine, where Roses lately grew.
Galla alone, with wonder we behold, Maintain her Spring, and still out-brave the Cold; Her constant white does not to Frost give place, Nor fresh Vermillion fade upon her face: Sure Divine beauty in this Dame does shine? Not Humane, one reply'd, yet not Divine.

Written by Anne Killigrew | |

A Farewel (To Worldly Joys.)

 FArewel ye Unsubstantial Joyes, 
Ye Gilded Nothings, Gaudy Toyes, 
Too long ye have my Soul misled, 
Too long with Aiery Diet fed: 
But now my Heart ye shall no more
Deceive, as you have heretofore: 
For when I hear such Sirens sing, 
Like Ithaca's fore-warned King, 
With prudent Resolution I
Will so my Will and Fancy tye, 
That stronger to the Mast not he,
Than I to Reason bound will be: 
And though your Witchcrafts strike my Ear, 
Unhurt, like him, your Charms I'll hear.

Written by Anne Killigrew | |

THE Complaint of a Lover

 SEest thou younder craggy Rock, 
 Whose Head o'er-looks the swelling Main, 
Where never Shepherd fed his Flock, 
 Or careful Peasant sow'd his Grain.
No wholesome Herb grows on the same, Or Bird of Day will on it rest; 'Tis Barren as the Hopeless Flame, That scortches my tormented Breast.
Deep underneath a Cave does lie, Th' entrance hid with dismal Yew, Where Phebus never shew'd his Eye, Or cheerful Day yet pierced through.
[Page 20] In that dark Melancholy Cell, (Retreate and Sollace to my Woe) Love, sad Dispair, and I, do dwell, The Springs from whence my Griefs do flow.
Treacherous Love that did appear, (When he at first approach't my Heart) Drest in a Garb far from severe, Or threatning ought of future smart.
So Innocent those Charms then seem'd, When Rosalinda first I spy'd, Ah! Who would them have deadly deem'd? But Flowers do often Serpents hide.
Beneath those sweets conceal'd lay, To Love the cruel Foe, Disdain, With which (alas) she does repay My Constant and Deserving Pain.
When I in Tears have spent the Night, With Sighs I usher in the Sun, Who never saw a sadder sight, In all the Courses he has run.
Sleep, which to others Ease does prove, Comes unto me, alas, in vain: For in my Dreams I am in Love, And in them too she does Disdain.
Some times t'Amuse my Sorrow, I Unto the hollow Rocks repair, And loudly to the Eccho cry, Ah! gentle Nimph come ease my Care.
Thou who, times past, a Lover wer't, Ah! pity me, who now am so, And by a sense of thine own smart, Alleviate my Mighty Woe.
Come Flatter then, or Chide my Grief; Catch my last Words, and call me Fool; Or say, she Loves, for my Relief; My Passion either sooth, or School.

Written by Anne Killigrew | |

Love the Soul of Poetry

 WHen first Alexis did in Verse delight, 
 His Muse in Low, but Graceful Numbers walk't, 
And now and then a little Proudly stalk't; 
 But never aim'd at any noble Flight: 
The Herds, the Groves, the gentle purling Streams, 
Adorn'd his Song, and were his highest Theams.
But Love these Thoughts, like Mists, did soon disperse, Enlarg'd his Fancy, and set free his Muse, Biding him more Illustrious Subjects choose; The Acts of Gods, and God-like Men reherse.
From thence new Raptures did his Breast inspire, His scarce Warm-Heart converted was to Fire.
Th' exalted Poet rais'd by this new Flame, With Vigor flys, where late he crept along, And Acts Divine, in a Diviner Song, Commits to the eternal Trompe of Fame.
And thus Alexis does prove Love to be, As the Worlds Soul, the Soul of Poetry.

Written by Anne Killigrew | |

On a Picture Painted by her self representing two Nimphs of DIANAs one in a posture to Hunt the other Batheing

 WE are Diana's Virgin-Train, 
Descended of no Mortal Strain; 
Our Bows and Arrows are our Goods, 
Our Pallaces, the lofty Woods, 
The Hills and Dales, at early Morn, 
Resound and Eccho with our Horn; 
We chase the Hinde and Fallow-Deer, 
The Wolf and Boar both dread our Spear; 

In Swiftness we out-strip the Wind, 
An Eye and Thought we leave behind; 
We Fawns and Shaggy Satyrs awe; 
To Sylvan Pow'rs we give the Law:
Whatever does provoke our Hate, 
Our Javelins strike, as sure as Fate; 
We bathe in Springs, to cleanse the Soil, 
Contracted by our eager Toil; 
In which we shine like glittering Beams, 
Or Christal in the Christal Streams; 
Though Venus we transcend in Form,
No wanton Flames our Bosomes warm! 
If you ask where such Wights do dwell, 
In what Bless't Clime, that so excel? 
The Poets onely that can tell.

Written by Anne Killigrew | |

An Invective against Gold

 OF all the Poisons that the fruitful Earth
E'er yet brought forth, or Monsters she gave Birth, 
Nought to Mankind has e'er so fatal been, 
As thou, accursed Gold, their Care and Sin.
Methinks I the Advent'rous Merchant see, Ploughing the faithless Seas, in search of thee, His dearest Wife and Children left behind, (His real Wealth) while he, a Slave to th' Wind, Sometimes becalm'd, the Shore with longing Eyes Wishes to see, and what he wishes, Spies: For a rude Tempest wakes him from his Dream, And Strands his Bark by a more sad Extream.
Thus, hopless Wretch, is his whole Life-time spent, And though thrice Wreck't, 's no Wiser than he went.
Again, I see, the Heavenly Fair despis'd, A Hagg like Hell, with Gold, more highly priz'd; Mens Faith betray'd, their Prince and Country Sold, Their God deny'd, all for the Idol Gold.
Unhappy Wretch, who first found out the Oar, What kind of Vengeance rests for thee in store? If Nebats Son, that Israel led astray, Meet a severe Reward at the last Day? Some strange unheard-of Judgement thou wilt find, Who thus hast caus'd to Sin all Humane Kind.

Written by Anne Killigrew | |

To my Lady Berkeley Afflicted upon her Son My Lord BERKELEYs Early Engaging in the Sea-Service

 SO the renowned Ithacensian Queen
In Tears for her Telemachus was seen, 
When leaving Home, he did attempt the Ire
Of rageing Seas, to seek his absent Sire: 
Such bitter Sighs her tender Breast did rend; 
But had she known a God did him attend, 
And would with Glory bring him safe again, 
Bright Thoughts would then have dispossess't her Pain.
Ah Noblest Lady! You that her excel In every Vertue, may in Prudence well Suspend your Care; knowing what power befriends Your Hopes, and what on Vertue still attends.
In bloody Conflicts he will Armour find, In strongest Tempests he will rule the Wind, He will through Thousand Dangers force a way, And still Triumphant will his Charge convey.
And the All-ruling power that can act thus, Will safe return your Dear Telemachus.
Alas, he was not born to live in Peace, Souls of his Temper were not made for Ease, Th' Ignoble only live secure from Harms, The Generous tempt, and seek out fierce Alarms.
Huge Labours were for Hercules design'd, Jason, to fetch the Golden Fleece, enjoyn'd, The Minotaure by Noble Theseus dy'd, In vain were Valour, if it were not try'd, Should the admir'd and far-sought Diamond lye, As in its Bed, unpolisht to the Eye, It would be slighted like a common stone, It's Value would be small, its Glory none.
But when't has pass'd the Wheel and Cutters hand, Then it is meet in Monarchs Crowns to stand.
Upon the Noble Object of your Care Heaven has bestow'd, of Worth, so large a share, That unastonisht none can him behold, Or credit all the Wonders of him told! When others, at his Years were turning o're, The Acts of Heroes that had liv'd before, Their Valour to excite, when time should fit, He then did Things, were Worthy to be writ! Stayd not for Time, his Courage that out-ran In Actions, far before in Years, a Man.
Two French Campagnes he boldly courted Fame, While his Face more the Maid, than Youth became Adde then to these a Soul so truly Mild, Though more than Man, Obedient as a Child.
And (ah) should one Small Isle all these confine, Vertues created through the World to shine? Heaven that forbids, and Madam so should you; Remember he but bravely does pursue His Noble Fathers steps; with your own Hand Then Gird his Armour on, like him he'll stand, His Countries Champion, and Worthy be Of your High Vertue, and his Memory.

Written by Anne Killigrew | |

St. John Baptist Painted by her self in the Wilderness with Angels appearing to him and with a Lamb by him

 THe Sun's my Fire, when it does shine, 
The hollow Spring's my Cave of Wine, 
The Rocks and Woods afford me Meat; 
This Lamb and I on one Dish eat: 
The neighbouring Herds my Garments send, 
My Pallet the kind Earth doth lend: 
Excess and Grandure I decline, 
M'Associates onely are Divine.

Written by Anne Killigrew | |

HERODIAS Daughter presenting to her Mother St. JOHNs Head in a Charger also Painted by her self

 BEhold, dear Mother, who was late our Fear, 
Disarm'd and Harmless, I present you here; 
The Tongue ty'd up, that made all Jury quake, 
And which so often did our Greatness shake; 

No Terror sits upon his Awful Brow, 
Where Fierceness reign'd, there Calmness triumphs now; 
As Lovers use, he gazes on my Face, 
With Eyes that languish, as they sued for Grace; 
Wholly subdu'd by my Victorious Charms, 
See how his Head reposes in my Arms.
Come, joyn then with me in my just Transport, Who thus have brought the Hermite to the Court.

Written by Anne Killigrew | |

Upon the saying that my VERSES were made by another.

 NExt Heaven my Vows to thee (O Sacred Muse! ) 
I offer'd up, nor didst thou them refuse.
O Queen of Verse, said I, if thou'lt inspire, And warm my Soul with thy Poetique Fire, No Love of Gold shall share with thee my Heart, Or yet Ambition in my Brest have Part, More Rich, more Noble I will ever hold The Muses Laurel, than a Crown of Gold.
An Undivided Sacrifice I'le lay Upon thine Altar, Soul and Body pay; Thou shalt my Pleasure, my Employment be, My All I'le make a Holocaust to thee.
The Deity that ever does attend Prayers so sincere, to mine did condescend.
I writ, and the Judicious prais'd my Pen: Could any doubt Insuing Glory then ? What pleasing Raptures fill'd my Ravisht Sense ? How strong, how Sweet, Fame, was thy Influence ? And thine, False Hope, that to my flatter'd sight Didst Glories represent so Near, and Bright ? By thee deceiv'd, methought, each Verdant Tree, Apollos transform'd Daphne seem'd to be; And ev'ry fresher Branch, and ev'ry Bow Appear'd as Garlands to empale my Brow.
The Learn'd in Love say, Thus the Winged Boy Does first approach, drest up in welcome Joy; At first he to the Cheated Lovers sight Nought represents, but Rapture and Delight, Alluring Hopes, Soft Fears, which stronger bind Their Hearts, than when they more assurance find.
Embolden'd thus, to Fame I did commit, (By some few hands) my most Unlucky Wit.
But, ah, the sad effects that from it came ! What ought t'have brought me Honour, brought me shame ! Like Esops Painted Jay I seem'd to all, Adorn'd in Plumes, I not my own could call: Rifl'd like her, each one my Feathers tore, And, as they thought, unto the Owner bore.
My Laurels thus an Others Brow adorn'd, My Numbers they Admir'd, but Me they scorn'd: An others Brow, that had so rich a store Of Sacred Wreaths, that circled it before; Where mine quite lost, (like a small stream that ran Into a Vast and Boundless Ocean) Was swallow'd up, with what it joyn'd and drown'd, And that Abiss yet no Accession found.
Orinda, (Albions and her Sexes Grace) Ow'd not her Glory to a Beauteous Face, It was her Radiant Soul that shon With-in, Which struk a Lustre through her Outward Skin; That did her Lips and Cheeks with Roses dy, Advanc't her Height, and Sparkled in her Eye.
Nor did her Sex at all obstruct her Fame, But higher 'mong the Stars it fixt her Name; What she did write, not only all allow'd, But ev'ry Laurel, to her Laurel, bow'd ! Th'Envious Age, only to Me alone, Will not allow, what I do write, my Own, But let 'em Rage, and 'gainst a Maide Conspire, So Deathless Numbers from my Tuneful Lyre Do ever flow; so Phebus I by thee Divinely Inspired and possest may be; I willingly accept Cassandras Fate, To speak the Truth, although believ'd too late