John Chatwin

John Chatwin (c. 1667 – after 1685) was an English poet of the Restoration. Although only one of Chatwin's poems was published in his lifetime, over two hundred pages of verse in his hand survive in manuscript, including translations of two poems from the Neo-Latin of Kazimierz and a version of Catullus 5 in rhyming couplets, both in MS. Rawl. poet. 94 in the Bodleian. The Bodleian volume was written in about 1682–5 and includes a selection of original poems and translations.

Quotes

• Dear Lesbia let us love and play,
  Not caring what Old Age can say;
  The Sun does set, again does rise,
  And with fresh Lustre gild the Skies.
  When once extinguisht is our Light,
  Wee’re wrapt in everlasting Night.
  A thousand times my lips then kiss
  An hundred more renew the bliss;
  Another thousand add to these,
  An hundred more will not suffice,
  Another thousand will not do,
  Another hundred are too few.
  A thousand more these Joyes wee’ll prove,
  Till wee’re extravagant in Love,
  Till no malicious Spie can ghess
  To what a wonderful Excess
  My Lesbia and I did kiss.
  • Translating Catullus, Carmina, 5, Vivamus, mea Lesbia — MS. Rawl. poet. 94, fol. 191

• Thou Glorious Rivall of the Sky,
  Why in Night's bed dost thou still lye?
  Lift up thy head, thou queen of flow'rs,
  Gay daughter of celestial pow'rs!
  Now no wat'rish clouds appear,
  Gentle zephyrs calm the air;
  Now the Western Gales do play,
  And the Northern Blasts allay.
  Arise! But ask not whose bright Face,
  Or Hair thy native Beam may grace;
  The Lewd, Lascivious, and Prophane
  May glory from thy Beauties gain,
  Thou sacred Trophy of chaste Love,
  Thou Wealth of Vertue fixt Above!
  Forbour the vulgar heads t'adorn,
  For Shrines and Altars Thou art born;
  The Blessed Virgin's Hair, now unconfin'd,
  Which sports with easy soft obsequious Wind,
  Thy gay Perfumes, and youthful Leaves shall bind.
  • Translating Casimirus, Lyricorum, Book IV, Ode 18, Ad Rosam — MS. Rawl. poet. 94, fols. 57–59

• Thrice happy Thou! Who on the Poplar's Boughs,
    Sit'st drunk with Heav'n's Ambrosial Dews.
    And with thy Notes thyself, dost please,
  And all the numʼrous Throng of list'ning Trees.
  After long Colds and odious Winters past,
    On nimble Wheels the Summers hast;
    Blame its unkindness, gently say —
  The Sun too soon withdraws his chearing Ray.
  As ev'ry happy Day itself does show,
    So in a trice it leaves us too,
    No pleasure over long remains
  For short-liv'd joyes We meet with lasting pains.
  • Translating Casimirus, Lyricorum, Book IV, Ode 23, Ad Cicadam — MS. Rawl. poet. 94, fols. 223–226