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Best Famous Anne Killigrew Poems

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by Anne Killigrew | |

The Second EPIGRAM. (On BILLINDA)

 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.


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.


by Anne Killigrew | |

A Pastoral Dialogue.

 Dorinda.
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.
Alexis.
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.
Dor.
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.
Alex.
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.
Dor.
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.
Dor.
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.
Alex.
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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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.


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.


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.


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.


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.


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.


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.


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.


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.


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.


by Anne Killigrew | |

On the Birth-Day of Queen Katherine

 WHile yet it was the Empire of the Night, 
And Stars still check'r'd Darkness with their Light, 
From Temples round the cheerful Bells did ring, 
But with the Peales a churlish Storm did sing.
I slumbr'd; and the Heavens like things did show, Like things which I had seen and heard below.
Playing on Harps Angels did singing fly, But through a cloudy and a troubl'd Sky, Some fixt a Throne, and Royal Robes display'd, And then a Massie Cross upon it laid.
I wept: and earnestly implor'd to know, Why Royal Ensigns were disposed so.
An Angel said, The Emblem thou hast seen, Denotes the Birth-Day of a Saint and Queen.
Ah, Glorious Minister, I then reply'd, Goodness and Bliss together do reside In Heaven and thee, why then on Earth below These two combin'd so rarely do we know ? He said, Heaven so decrees: and such a Sable Morne Was that, in which the Son of God was borne.
Then Mortal wipe thine Eyes, and cease to rave, God darkn'd Heaven, when He the World did save.


by Anne Killigrew | |

TO My Lord Colrane In Answer to his Complemental Verses sent me under the Name of CLEANOR

 LOng my dull Muse in heavy slumbers lay, 
Indulging Sloth, and to soft Ease gave way, 
Her Fill of Rest resolving to enjoy, 
Or fancying little worthy her employ.
When Noble Cleanors obliging Strains Her, the neglected Lyre to tune, constrains.
Confus'd at first, she rais'd her drowsie Head, Ponder'd a while, then pleas'd, forsook her Bed.
Survey'd each Line with Fancy richly fraught, Re-read, and then revolv'd them in her Thought.
And can it be ? she said, and can it be ? That 'mong the Great Ones I a Poet see ? The Great Ones? who their Ill-spent time devide, 'Twixt dang'rous Politicks, and formal Pride, Destructive Vice, expensive Vanity, In worse Ways yet, if Worse there any be: Leave to Inferiours the despised Arts, Let their Retainers be the Men of Parts.
But here with Wonder and with Joy I find, I'th'Noble Born, a no less Noble Mind; One, who on Ancestors, does not rely For Fame, in Merit, as in Title, high! The Severe Goddess thus approv'd the Laies: Yet too much pleas'd, alas, with her own Praise.
But to vain Pride, My Muse, cease to give place, Virgils immortal Numbers once did grace A Smother'd Gnat: By high Applause is shown, If undeserv'd, the Praisers worth alone: Nor that you should believ't, is't always meant, 'Tis often for Instruction only sent, To praise men to Amendment, and display, By its Perfection, where their Weakness lay.
This Use of these Applauding Numbers make Them for Example, not Encomium, take.


by Anne Killigrew | |

On a young Lady Whose LORD was Travelling.

 NO sooner I pronounced Celindas name,
But Troops of wing'd Pow'rs did chant the fame: 
Not those the Poets Bows and Arrows lend, 
But such as on the Altar do attend.
Celinda nam'd, Flow'rs spring up from the Ground, Excited meerly with the Charming Sound.
Celinda, the Courts Glory, and its fear, The gaz'd at Wonder, where she does appear.
Celinda great in Birth, greater in Meen, Yet none so humble as this Fair-One's seen.
Her Youth and Beauty justly might disdain, But the least Pride her Glories ne're did stain.
Celinda of each State th'ambitious Strife, At once a Noble Virgin, and a Wife Who, while her Gallant Lord in Forraign parts Adorns his Youth with all accomplisht Arts, Grows ripe at home in Vertue, more than Years, And in each Grace a Miracle appears ! When other of her Age a madding go, To th' Park and Plays, and ev'ry publick Show, Proud from their Parents Bondage they have broke, Though justly freed, she still does wear the Yoke; Preferring more her Mothers Friend to be, Than Idol of the Towns Loose-Gallantry.
On her she to the Temple does attend, Where they their Blessed Hours both save and spend.
They Smile, they Joy, together they do Pray, You'd think two Bodies did One Soul obey: Like Angels thus they do reflect their Bliss, And their bright Vertues each the other kiss.
Return young Lord, while thou abroad dost rome The World to see, thou loosest Heaven at Home.


by Anne Killigrew | |

ON THE Dutchess of Grafton Under the Name of Alinda.

 A SONG.
I.
TH'ambitious Eye that seeks alone, Where Beauties Wonders most are shown; Of all that bounteous Heaven displays, Let him on bright Alinda gaze; And in her high Example see, All can admir'd, or wisht-for, be ! II.
An unmatch't Form, Mind like endow'd, Estate, and Title great and proud; A Charge Heaven dares to few commit, So few, like her, can manage it; Without all Blame or Envy bear.
The being Witty, Great, and Fair ! III.
So well these Murd'ring Weapons weild, As first Herself with them to shield, Then slaughter none in proud Disport, Destroy those she invites to Gourt: Great are her Charmes, but Vertue more, She wounds no Hearts, though All adore.
IV.
'Tis Am'rous Beauty Love invites, A Passion, like it self, excites: The Paragon, though all admire, Kindles in none a fond desire: No more than those the Kings Renown And State applaud, affect his Crown.


by Anne Killigrew | |

Penelope to Ulysses.

 REturn my dearest Lord, at length return, 
Let me no longer your sad absence mourn, 
Ilium in Dust, does no more Work afford, 
No more Employment for your Wit or Sword.
Why did not the fore-seeing Gods destroy, Helin the Fire-brand both of Greece and Troy, E're yet the Fatal Youth her Face had seen, E're lov'd and born away the wanton Queen ? Then had been stopt the mighty Floud of Woe, Which now both Greece and Phrygia over-flow: Then I, these many Teares, should not have shed, Nor thou, the source of them, to War been led: I should not then have trembled at the Fame Of Hectors warlike and victorious Name.
Why did I wish the Noble Hector Slain ? Why Ilium ruin'd ? Rise, O rise again ! Again great City flourish from thine Urne: For though thou'rt burn'd, my Lord does not return.
Sometimes I think, (but O most Cruel Thought,) That, for thy Absence, th'art thy self in fault: That thou art captiv'd by some captive Dame, Who, when thou fired'st Troy, did thee inflame And now with her thou lead'st thy am'rous Life, Forgetful, and despising of thy Wife.


by Anne Killigrew | |

An Epitaph on her Self.

 WHen I am Dead, few Friends attend my Hearse, 
And for a Monument, I leave my VERSE.


by Anne Killigrew | |

On my Aunt Mrs A. K. Drownd under London-Bridge in the QUEENS Bardge Anno 1641.

 THe Darling of a Father Good and Wise, 
The Vertue, which a Vertuous Age did prize; 
The Beauty Excellent even to those were Faire, 
Subscrib'd unto, by such as might compare; 
The Star that 'bove her Orb did always move, 
And yet the Noblest did not Hate, but Love; 
And those who most upon their Title stood, 
Vail'd also to, because she did more Good.
To whom the Wrong'd, and Worthy did resort, And held their Sutes obtain'd, if only brought; The highest Saint in all the Heav'n of Court.
So Noble was her Aire, so Great her Meen, She seem'd a Friend, not Servant to the Queen.
To Sin, if known, she never did give way, Vice could not Storm her, could it not betray.
When angry Heav'n extinguisht her fair Light, It seem'd to say, Nought's Precious in my sight; As I in Waves this Paragon have drown'd, The Nation next, and King I will confound.


by Anne Killigrew | |

An ODE.

 ARise my Dove, from mid'st of Pots arise, 
 Thy sully'd Habitation leave, 
 To Dust no longer cleave, 
Unworthy they of Heaven that will not view the Skies.
[Page 83] Thy native Beauty re-assume, Prune each neglected Plume, Till more than Silver white, Then burnisht Gold more bright, Thus ever ready stand to take thy Eternal Flight.
II.
The Bird to whom the spacious Aire was given, As in a smooth and trackless Path to go, A Walk which does no Limits know Pervious alone to Her and Heaven: Should she her Airy Race forget, On Earth affect to walk and sit; Should she so high a Priviledge neglect, As still on Earth, to walk and sit, affect, What could she of Wrong complain, Who thus her Birdly Kind doth stain, If all her Feathers moulted were, And naked she were left and bare, The Jest and Scorn of Earth and Aire ? III.
The Bird of Paradice the Soul,


by Anne Killigrew | |

Extemporary Counsel given to a Young Gallant in a Frolick.

 AS you are Young, if you'l be also Wise, 
Danger with Honour court, Quarrels despise; 
Believe you then are truly Brave and Bold, 
To Beauty when no Slave, and less to Gold; 
When Vertue you dare own, not think it odd, 
Or ungenteel to say, I fear a God.


by Anne Killigrew | |

On the Soft and Gentle Motions of Eudora.

 DIvine Thalia strike th'Harmonious Lute, 
But with a Stroke so Gentle as may sute
 The silent gliding of the Howers,
 Or yet the calmer growth of Flowers;
 Th'ascending or the falling Dew,
 Which none can see, though all find true.
For thus alone, Can be shewn, How downie, how smooth, Eudora doth Move, How Silken her Actions appear, The Aire of her Face, Of a gentler Grace Then those that do stroke the Eare.
Her Address so sweet, So Modestly Meet, That 'tis not the Lowd though Tuneable String, Can shewforth so soft, so Noyseless a Thing! O This to express from thy Hand must fall, Then Musicks self, something more Musical.