The Avthor To Avrora Poem by William Bosworth

Why should my pen aspire so high a strain,
A verse to guide, to guide a verse unfit?
Are they the fittest voices to complain?
Admit they be, they're for a riper wit;
Yet you who these unpolisht lines shall read,
Deride them not, they from distraction came,
Let that suffice, my love alone shall plead
For their defect, and shall excuse the same,
Excuse the same, for what from love doth spring,
To lovers only resolution bring.


Cælums faire daughter hath bereft my heart
Of those sweet hopes to lovers only due,
Vnwilling she those pleasures to impart,
Lest too much joy should make me cease to rue,
Lest her fair eyes should work that gracious hap,
Which she would not permit I should enjoy,
While I lye lull'd in Fates unconstant lap,
With grief converse, and still with sorrow toy:
For such a gentle pain she doth me send,
As if she would not wish my life, nor end.


Yet such it is that I will not exchange
My life with those whom Fortune kind intreats,
And since it is her arrow that doth range
My tender heart, I kisse the rod that beats.
I laugh at Cupid, who is overjoy'd
With fond conceit, that he hath wrought this fire,
But let him be with self-conceit destroy'd,
'Twas not his power, twas my own desire,
Though Venus hood-wink'd son doth bear the name,
Azile's vertue 'twas did me inflame.


'Twas thee Azile, of whose loves I sang,
'Tween thee and me among the gentle Gothes,
Something it was when all the valleys rang
Too true, the breach of thy beplighted oaths.
I little thought my willing warbling quill,
With her shrill notes did miss to sing the truth,
But now I finde through too dear gotten skill,
Thou art despiser of my blooming youth,
What there I said, how much thy soul rely'd
Vpon thy faith, these Poems say I ly'd.


Else why should I complain of this mischance,
Had it not been contrary to thy vowes?
With tears thou mad'st them, and what furtherance,
Of signes were more, Heavn's ruler onely knows.
Heav'n knows my faith, how I have loyall been,
And have not broke the smallest string of love.
To see my constance will augment thy sin,
How loyall I, how wav'ring thou dost prove,
But twas thy will, that I thy favour mist,
I'm thine, and thou maist use me as thou list.


Even as thou list Azile, I'l rejoyce,
And tremble at thy eyes when e're they move;
Command thy will, I will obey thy voice,
Vnless thou bidst me cease to owe thee love.
There pardon me dear love, for such a root
It hath obtain'd in my triangle heart,
That since thou first didst thereon place thy foot,
The pain increas'd, and still I feel the smart;
No pain at all, since it from thee ensues,
And Love, thou maist command them as thy dues.


Even as thy dues, and what I can procure,
More from my heart, to thee shall be presented,
Yet hadst thou but the tenth part I endure,
I'm sure thy last neglect should be repented;
Thou wouldst be sorry that I have mispent
My time in sighs, for prayers only free,
But pray'rs are killd through too much discontent,
For he that loves can never zealous be.
Tis thee alone must be my gracious Saint,
Gainst thee, and to thee onely's my complaint.


How oft have I been subject of thy scorn?
How often kill'd by thy impetuous eyes?
How oft have I the warlike Ensign born
Of thy fierce heart, enur'd to cruelty?
So oft hast thou, after the tyde was past,
Of disrespect, my heavy soul repriev'd
From that dejected state, so oft thou hast,
Witnest with vowes, if vows may be beleev'd,
O that I could thy former love descry,
To reassume thy late humanity.


Wouldst thou but think with what intire de light
My soul was carried to those joyes, and whither,
Wouldst thou but think how strong we did unite
Into one bond our mutuall loves together,
Wouldst thou but reconcile thy wandring sense,
And cease t'afflict with thy impartiall eyes;
Wouldst thou but hear the prayer which I commence,
One shour might cherish yet the root which dyes.
But thou art wise, and canst thy worth refine,
Yet use me gently, 'cause thou knowst I'm thine.


What though thy birth require a higher place,
Than my low heart is able to bestow?
Admit it doe, yet count it no disgrace,
'Tis my humility that makes me low,
And since I have aspir'd so high a favour,
Which once I had, but now I cann't obtain,
I'l spend my dayes, even with as sad behaviour,
And study most, how most I may complain.
O that my plaints would mollifie thy heart,
And once thou wouldst give period to my smart.


What though thy riches ask as high a fortune?
And with thy birth doth bear an equall sway?
O were that all, I know I might importune
A little help, for riches will decay.
Even as thy wealth, so will thy beauty fade,
And then thou wilt repent thee of my wrong,
A secret sorrow shall thy brest invade,
Thy heart shall be as faulty as thy tongue,
They both shall vex, and this shall be the tryall,
One gave consent, the other gave denyall.


When thou shalt be of all thy youth depriv'd,
And shalt with ages wrinkled rowes be clad;
When thou shalt sit and think how much I striv'd
Thy love to gain, and what reward I had;
When thy deceitfull promises shall call
Thee to the bar, and there arraign thy thoughts,
When thou with heavy eyes shalt summon all
The harms which thy unkindness in me wrought,
When thou shalt hear of my distracted mind,
Thou wilt repent thee that thou wast unkind.


And that thou maist remember thy disdain,
Even these I wrote, that thou mayst read the same,
And there shalt find what just cause to complain
From thee I had, by thy unkindness came;
That so thou maist be sorry for my harm,
And wet thy eyes; for once I know you lov'd me;
O let that love be to thy heart a charm,
But since nor pray'rs, nor vows, nor tears have mov'd thee,
Even these I wrote to shew to future years,
How much Azile thou hast scorn'd my tears.


How much Azile thou hast scorn'd my tears,
And hast detain'd that which thou know'st is mine,
Thy heart is his, even to whose heart he fears
No hopes will come, and therefore doth repine
Even to his death, for which way can he chuse
When the remembrance of thy faith shall creep
Before his eyes, and therein shall infuse
A thousand tears, how can he chuse but weep?
O happy yet, wouldst thou this discontent
But call to mind, and in that mind repent.


The time will come, when thy beloved face
Shall lose the spring, with which it now is clad,
When thou art old, thou in some secret place
Wilt sit, and think of all the wrongs I had,
Then wilt thou read these my unpolish'd plaints,
The Chronicles of my unpittied cryes,
When thou art old, perhaps thy heart shall faint
For shame, and let one tear forsake thy eyes;
I know thou wilt, and e're thy Sun expire
His glorious date, thou wilt recall thy ire.


Though now thy eyes are carried from the wounds
Thy eyes did give, when first my eyes beheld them,
Though now thy ears deny to hear the sounds
Of my just plaints, and therefore hast expell'd them,
Yet once before thy Soul shall take her way
Towards those fields, the fair Elisian rest,
Thou wilt be greedy of an howers stay,
To tell the world, how thou hast me opprest.
I know thou wilt, and though a while the shade
Obscure the Sun, at last the cloud will fade.


Tell me how oft thou hast with serious voice,
Vow'd for thy love no harm I should endure?
Tell me if erst thou didst not like thy choice,
And with thy vows didst crown our nuptials sure?
Tell me if once upon those blessed Stairs,
The Stairs my thought that guided unto Heaven,
When I surprised by thee unawares,
Had there thy loves assurance fully given,
Or if thou wilt not tell, yet say in this,
If I have spoke, or wrot a word amiss.


Mistake me not, my pen was nere defil'd,
With any staine, that may thy honour staine,
From all lascivious thoughts I am exil'd,
So shall my pen immodest sense refrain;
Thou art as free, as pure from any blot,
And therefore shalt with Lotus crown thy brows,
If ever thou did'st sin, I knew it not,
Excepting this the fraction of thy vowes,
I vow by Heaven and all the powers therein,
Excepting this, I never knew thee sin.


Ye flowry Meads where I do use to sing,
And with complaining notes do often fill ye,
Ye purling streams, where I with quav'ring string,
Make Musick, tell the praise of my Azile,
Ye shady Groves and melancholly places,
Where oft I do retire to sigh my wrongs,
Ye lofty hills that oft hear my disgraces,
To whom I chatter forth my heavy songs,
Let these perswasions now your voices move,
Say if I ever spake against my love.


When I with Lillies do adorne my head.
And dress my face by pleasant silver brook,
When I my snowy flock do gently lead,
And guide their steps with willing Shepherds hook,
When I with Daffadill's doe garlands make,
And therewith have my back and arms inshrin'd,
When I to oaten pipe doe me betake,
To tell of my Azile, and her mind,
When I so oft with flowers my hands have drest,
What was it but to please Azile best?


The firstlings of my flock to her I gave,
Twice happy flock to send your presents thither,
Thrice happy flock, for she the last shall have,
The last was hers, I sent them both together.
She took them both, and with a gentle eye,
(Where courtesie, and grace together lay,
As loth to rob, yet lother to deny)
She'wd on the hills her willingness to stay,
Blest be the time when first her love I mov'd,
Too silly Shepherd so to be belov'd.


Too silly Shepherd, and unworthy too,
That durst presume that fair fruit to attempt,
But since intire affection made me wooe,
O judg me not of modesty exempt,
For though I did aspire so high a taske,
Yet best it is, and best to be commended,
I eas'ly can maintaint't, no help I aske,
Let love and honour joyne, dispute is ended;
I'le mount the highest steps that honour calls,
He falls no lower than the ground that falls.


And that the easier I may climb the same,
I'le build a ladder of heroick wood,
Each step imbellisht in the purest frame,
Of Corall born in the Tyrræan flood,
That when my wishes have attain'd their will,
And all my thoughts have perfected my art,
That when my cares have rested on a hill,
The only rock of my repining heart,
None may condemn me, for I did aspire
To vertue clad in constant loves atire.


Yet many will conjecture much amiss,
Because my love so slowly is requited,
Each spitefull Satyre will surmise by this,
Thou hat'st me cause my pains have thee delighted;
But let them please themselves with thought thereof,
And with their wits ascribe their own applause,
I free from anger at their harms will laugh,
For some vex most when none will give them cause,
That when thou seest how loyall I am thine,
Thou may'st conceive the greatest harme is mine.


The Morning blush is like Azile made,
Azile's cheeks are like the morning blush,
If faire Aurora please to be the shade,
Why should Azile scorne to be the bush?
Thou art that bush Azile under whom,
My buskin Muse sings free from contrie strife,
Thou art that Lotus to whose shade I come,
To sup my milke, and sport away my life,
That when thou seest my harmless sports excell,
Thou mayst remember once thou knew'st me well.


Thou mayst remember once thou knew'st me well,
And did'st not shame t'account me as thy own,
Then loyall love within thy breast did dwel,
And faith, but now no faith in thee is known.
When we in Evenings have the vallies trac'd,
And sipt fresh aire to cloze the hasty day,
When with thy steps thou hast the mountains grac'd,
To see how Hesper hy'd him on his way,
Why wast not carefull then to keep thy vow,
For there thou mad'st me promises enow.


And then the Spring of my unstaind affection,
With Roses drest, and Lillies sweetly grew,
Whose ruddie look, gave it a faire complexion,
Till frowning Winter gave't another hue,
But stay thou know'st already why I sing,
And with my heavy verse so gently move thee,
For that alone I did these sonnets bring,
That by these plaints thou mayst perceive I love thee,
For out of nothing, nothing can be brought,
And that which is, can nere be turnd to nought.


How can I smother then my long pent love,
Allmost unknown to thee so long conceald?
O you that can assist me from above,
For by your means twas first of all reveald,
Since when my heart in such sure hope remains,
That I will not exchange my part in her,
Not for the purest face the world contains,
For before all her love I will prefer;
And know in their fruition I shall want
Those sweet contents which these complainings grant.


Twice hath the Sun drencht in Iberian Seas,
Twice fifty times renew'd his fiery Car,
Since with thy sight thou did'st impart some ease,
And since I spoke to thee ran twice so far,
But yet thou seest thy still dejected friend,
Admits no period to the love he owes,
And though thy absence gives all pleasures end,
Yet know thy presence far more grief bestows,
For this will vex, when one their own shall see,
And yet not dare there of the owner be.


Ay me, when I alone sit and bemone me,
Of thy hard heart, and my unjust correction,
When by my self I sit, and think upon thee,
With what sure bonds I'm brought into subjection,
Then, then my heart, grieving to be restraind;
Beats up a loud alarm, to come to thee,
If when I think of thee I am so pain'd,
What do I then when I thy face do see?
Such is my paine, if paines may be believ'd,
Griev'd at thy sight, and at thy absence griev'd.


What though I have transgrest against thy will?
And run as idle wayes as many other?
I am not minded to pursue them still,
If thou no more wilt thy affections smother,
And know Azile that the chiefest cause
Of all mishaps, sprung first from thy unkindness,
It is a statute made in Cupids laws,
Neglected Lovers spend their dayes in blindness,
And so it is, when once depriv'd the bliss
Of constant love, we other blessings miss.


And so run headlong careless of our good,
Into all danger that the world hath sent,
But Heaven be prais'd, that I have this withstood,
I never knew what carnall action ment;
For other sins, I know I have a share,
As deep as any that committed sin,
And more must have, I yet cannot forbear,
Such is the state my restless soule lives in,
Such is my state, unless thou dost relent
My dayly wrong, and then I shall repent.


If thou misdoubt, as thou mayst well misdoubt,
Because I'm now so wild, and vaine withall,
That should I speed, my love would quickly out,
And I unto my old rebates would fall,
O let the thought thereof no place obtaine,
But banish it, as enemy to good;
Try me a while before I reap the gaine,
Which so long wisht, hath so long been withstood,
Try me I say, and thou shalt me restore,
For verjuyce sweetned once, will sowre no more.


Alas my love, what love appears in this?
To omit the cure, which only may procure
Thy Clyents ease? guide not thy love amiss,
Lest thy neglect make thy distruction sure,
And then my blood be sprinkled on thy Coate,
Will bring a horrid sound unto thy Soule,
I vow by Heaven that all the world shall know't;
There's nothing can a firme resolve controll,
By Heaven I vow, and this the truth relates,
Deny againe, I'le dye before thy gates.


But stay complaints, returne unto your owner,
And blame her not, shees free from any blame,
There can no spotted scandall rest upon her,
Tis your presumption, and it is your shame.
But say againe, although you are unfit
To kiss her ears, yet you'l take no deniall,
And that you'l not her plighted troth remit,
But will remit it to a further tryall,
Even to his doom, who will all things destroy,
And there reward her inhumanity.


And there reward thy inhumanity
Vnkind Azile, rapt in liquid charms,
Thou canst not with an unstaind Conscience dye,
Vnless thou dost give period to my harms.
Is it thy wealth that makes thee thus refraine me?
As it is thine, so shall it still be thine.
Is it thy birth that makes thee thus disdaine me?
O scorn me not, I come of Noble Line,
For by the Norman Duke our browes were crown'd,
With Lawrell branches, and our names renown'd.


Cease then t'afflict, and shew that heart some ease,
Which in offences never gave thee none,
Vnless it was in striving best to please,
Therein indeed it hath been very prone,
And that thou know'st, there's none doth know so wel,
How my poore love did run in full carier,
My dayly presence did my passions tell,
My dayly passions in thy presence were.
O happy time when thy sweet presence gave it,
But now I have most need I cannot have it.


Believe Azile, when of thee I think,
As such sweet thoughts are in me very rife,
I'm ready of prepared bane to drinke,
Or any poyson that will end my Life;
And still because, my still consuming heart,
Injoyes no rest, wisht rest I never have,
But of turmoyls and troubles I have part,
But tis not trouble that a Soul must save,
A sweet content doth lead the way from wrath,
He safest lives that quiet conscience hath.


But I have none, nor never must have any,
Vnless thy eyes do shine upon my face,
Amongst thy noble virtues which are many,
O let this favour thy poore Servant grace;
Since thou disdainest to bestow thy heart
On me so far dejected, so unworthy,
Tell me what cause it is, and twill impart,
Ease to those dayly pains I suffer for thee;
So shall my soule be quiet, so my paine
Releast, and I shall heare thee speak againe.


And thats a favour far beyond desert,
But not beyond desire I have to love thee.
Dost thou desire? I'le rip my wounded heart,
And shew thee that which there perhaps may move thee;
O let me find accesse unto thy breast,
And there receive my almost wearied Soule,
Her wings are weary, and implore some rest,
Her wearied wings their slippery fate condole;
And scorne me not that I so much have sought thee,
For know Azile I have dearly bought thee.


For know Azile I have dearly paid
For thee, if of thee I am e're possest,
Possess me then with thy prevailing ayd,
And ayd to that shore that must make me blest,
There shall I sing Encomions to thy praise,
And praise the lustre of thy noble Spirit,
When ravish't by those Epithalmian layes
Of Nymphs, thou shalt their Nymph-like grace inherit,
And Hymen in a saffron vaile shall come,
O're a faire field bestrew'd with Margerum.


There shall the scores of either love be read,
And there my pains in which thou hast delighted,
There shall my love for her offences plead,
There shall my vowes be paid, my pains requited,
And those that do except against my age,
Harpocrates to silence shall conjure,
A Vultur shall his starv'd desire asswage,
Vpon their hearts, cause they my pains procure,
What though! scarce have twice ten winters told,
As much as is in man, in me behold.


As much as is in man in me should be,
But that thou hast bereft me of my heart,
I want those glozing words of flattery,
By which some men gaine more than by desert,
I want that wit which ought to parallell
Thy virtues, and procure deserving bliss,
I want that strength and vigour to repell,
Dejected griefe, which guides loves wheele amiss,
I want those means which should all good supplant
Within my brest, and chiefely thee I want.


Loves coach they say is made of Ebony,
And drawn by Turtle Doves of Silver hue,
To shew the brightnesse of pure amity,
With Turtles yoak't, than Turtles what more true?
Along whose sides the purple silke doth twind
The silver Ouches to the golden wheels,
So outward beauty should a lover bind,
For who the outward love the inward feels,
Eye sight confirmes, but vertues motives be,
Tis not alone thy face I love but thee.


Thee for thy virtues I alone admire,
Azile mine, but mine no more thou art,
Yet canst thou not those raging flames expire
Of Love, unless thou hast a double heart,
O double not my pains (my dearest love)
Nor let the Torments of my Soule increase,
For private envy will all truth reprove,
That Kingdome safest lives that lives in peace,
How can we then a true concordance find,
When we two, one, have both a diff'rent mind?


A Poet said, if Cupid be a power,
Let him possess me now with his desire,
When suddenly his eyes began to loure,
And he expir'd his life in helpless fire,
And so must I perish within that flame,
If these will not thy heart to pitty bend,
If still thy flinty heart remains the same,
I wish that with this line, my life might end;
And this cmplaint about the earth be hurl'd,
Alive to death, but dead unto the world.


And hear I stay, expecting now the doom,
And sentence of eternall joy, or grief,
Which from thy sweet, or fatall lips must come,
For while I live thou of my heart art chiefe;
Then shew thy selfe as thou desir'st to be,
Vnstaind in all thy wayes, in all upright,
That following dayes with pure integrity,
May sweet my sorrowes past with some delight;
And here I rest expecting the regard,
Of faithfull love, and his deserv'd reward.

Peliander

Finis