Richard Lovelace, poet of infidelity?

Richard Lovelace was an English poet of the seventeenth century. He fought in the English Civil War on the side of the King, against Parliament. And he is known today almost entirely for two poems out of that time, "To Althea, From Prison," and "To Lucasta, Going to the Wars." You likely ran across one of these in English class somewhere along the way.

But who ever reads any of his other stuff? A while ago I found a website collecting his works, and realized that far from being remembered as a Cavalier fighting for the King, he should be remembered as the Poet Laureate of Infidelity. Here are some samples:

Depose your finger of that ring


Depose your finger of that ring,
And crown mine with't awhile
Now I restore't.—Pray, does it bring
Back with it more of soil?
Or shines it not as innocent,
As honest, as before 'twas lent?

So then enrich me with that treasure,
Will but increase your store,
And please me (fair one) with that pleasure
Must please you still the more:
Not to save others is a curse
The blackest, when y'are ne'er the worse.
__________

The Scrutiny

Why should you swear I am forsworn,
Since thine I vowed to be?
Lady it is already morn,
And 'twas last night I swore to thee
That fond impossibility.

Have I not lov'd thee much and long,
A tedious twelve hours space ?
I must all other beauties wrong,
And rob thee of a new embrace;
Could I still dote upon thy face.

Not, but all joy in thy brown hair
By others may be found;
But I must search the black and fair
Like skilfull mineralists that sound
For treasure in un-plow'd-up ground.

Then, if when I have lov'd my round,
Thou prov'st the pleasant she;
With spoils of meaner beauties crown'd,
I laden will return to thee,
Ev'n sated with variety.
__________

This last one isn't so much about infidelity ... so far as I can tell ... but the brazenness of the invitation is breath-taking. (Wait for the ending; he takes a few stanzas to get there.)

To Amarantha, that she would dishevel her hair

Amarantha sweet and fair,
Ah braid no more that shining hair!
As my curious hand or eye,
Hovering round thee let it fly.

Let it fly as unconfin'd
As its calm ravisher, the wind;
Who hath left his darling th' East,
To wanton o'er that spicy nest.

Ev'ry Tress must be confessed;
But neatly tangled at the best;
Like a clue of golden thread,
Most excellently ravellèd.

Do not then wind up that light
In ribbons, and o'er-cloud in night;
Like the sun in's early ray,
But shake your head and scatter day.

See 'tis broke! Within this Grove
The Bower, and the walks of Love,
Weary lie we down and rest,
And fan each other's panting breast.

Here we'll strip and cool our fire
In cream below, in milk-baths higher:
And when all Wells are drawn dry,
I'll drink a tear out of thine eye.

Which our very Joys shall leave
That sorrows thus we can deceive;
Or our very sorrows weep,
That joys so ripe, so little keep.
__________

Happy reading ....