Thus you prepar'd, and in the glorious fight
Their wondrous pattern too you take;
Their old and empty pitchers first they brake,
And with their hands then lifted up the light.

lo! sound too the trumpets here!
Already your victorious lights appear;
New scenes of Heaven already we espy,
And crowds of golden worlds on high,
Which from the spacious plains of earth and sea
Could never yet discover'd be,

By sailors' or Chaldeans' watchful eye.
Nature's great works no distance can obscure,
No smallness her near objects can secure ;

Y' have taught the curious sight to press
Into the privatest recess

Of her imperceptible littleness!

Y have learn'd to read her smallest hand, And well begun her deepest sense to understand! Mischief and true dishonour fall on those Who would to laughter or to scorn expose So virtuous and so noble a design,

So human for its use, for knowledge so divine. The things which these proud men despise, and call Impertinent, and vain, and small,

Those smallest things of Nature let me know, Rather than all their greatest actions do! Whoever would deposed Truth advance

Into the throne usurp'd from it,

Must feel at first the blows of Ignorance,
And the sharp points of envious Wit.

So, when, by various turns of the celestial dance,
In many thousand years

A star, so long unknown, appears, Though Heaven itself more beauteous by it grow, It troubles and alarms the world below, Does to the wise a star, to fools a meteor, show.

With courage and success you the bold work begin;

Your cradle has not idle been :

None e'er, but Hercules and you, would be At five years age worthy a history:

And ne'er did Fortune better yet Th' historian to the story fit:

As you from all old errours free
And purge the body of Philosophy;
So from all modern follies he
Has vindicated Eloquence and Wit.
His candid style like a clean stream does slide,
And his bright fancy, all the way,
Does like the sun-shine in it play;

It does, like Thames, the best of rivers! glide,
Where the god does not rudely overturn,
But gently pour, the crystal urn,

And with judicious hand does the whole current guide:

'T has all the beauties Nature can impart, And all the comely dress, without the paint, of Art.

It does not me a whit displease,
That the rich all honours seize;
That you all titles make your own,
Are valiant, learned, wise, alone:
But, if you claim o'er women too
The power which over men ye do;
If you alone must lovers be;
For that, sirs, you must pardon me.
Rather than lose what does so near
Concern my life and being here,
I'll some such crooked ways invent,
As you, or your forefathers, went:
I'll flatter or oppose the king,
Turn Puritan, or any thing;
I'll force my mind to arts so new:
Grow rich, and love as well as you.
But rather thus let me remain,
As man in Paradise did reign;
When perfect love did so agree
With innocence and poverty,
Adam did no jointure give;
Himself was jointure to his Eve:
Untouch'd with avarice yet, or pride,
The rib came freely back t' his side.
A curse upon the man who taught
Women, that love was to be bought;
Rather doat only on your gold,
And that with greedy avarice hold;
Por, if woman too submit

To that, and sell herself for it,

Fond lover! you a mistress have
Of her that's but your fellow-slave.
What should those poets mean of old,
That made their god to woo in gold?
Of all men, sure, they had no cause
To bind Love to such costly laws;
And yet I scarcely blame them now;
For who, alas! would not allow,
That women should such gifts receive,
Could they, as he, be what they give.

If thou, my dear, thyself shouldst prize,
Alas! what value would suffice?
The Spaniard could not do 't, though he
Should to both Indies jointure thee.
Thy beauties therefore wrong will take,
If thou shouldst any bargain make;
To give all, will befit thee well;
But not at under-rates to sell.

Bestow thy beauty then on me,
Freely, as Nature gave 't to thee;
'Tis an exploded popish thought
To think that Heaven may be bought.
Prayers, hymns, and praises, are the way,
And those my thankful Muse shall pay:
Thy body, in my verse enshrin'd,
Shall grow immortal as thy mind.
I'll fix thy title next in fame
To Sacharissa's well-sung name.
So faithfully will I declare
What all thy wondrous beauties are,
That when, at the last great assize,
All women shall together rise,

Men straight shall cast their eyes on thee,
And know at first that thou art she.

THE SPRING.

THOUGH
you be absent here, I needs must say
The trees as beauteous are, and flowers as gay,
As ever they were wont to be;

Nay, the birds' rural music too

Is as melodious and free,

As if they sung to pleasure you: I saw a rose-bud ope this morn-I'll swear The blushing Morning open'd not more fair. How could it be so fair, and you away? How could the trees be beauteous, flowers so gay Could they remember but last year, How you did them, they you, delight, The sprouting leaves which saw you here, And call'd their fellows to the sight, Would, looking round for the same sight in vain, Creep back into their silent barks again. Where'er you walk'd, trees were as reverend made,

As when of old gods dwelt in every shade.
Is 't possible they should not know,
What loss of honour they sustain

That thus they smile and flourish now,
And still their former pride retain ?
Dull creatures! 'tis not without cause that she,
Who fled the god of wit, was made a tree.

•

In ancient times, sure, they much wiser were,
When they rejoic'd the Thracian verse to hear;
In vain did Nature bid them stay,
When Orpheus had his song begun―
They call'd their wondering roots away,
And bade them silent to him run.

you! You would have drawn them and their poet too. But who can blame them now? for, since you're gone,

They're here the only fair, and shine alone;
You did their natural rights invade;
Wherever you did walk or sit,

The thickest boughs could make no shade,
Although the Sun had granted it:
The fairest flowers could please no more, near

you, Than painted flowers, set next to them, could do.

hene'er then you come hither, that shall be he time, which this to others is, to me.

The little joys which here are now, The name of punishments do bear; When by their sight they let us know How we depriv'd of greater are: 'Tis you the best of seasons with you bring; This is for beasts, and that for men, the Spring.

WRITTEN IN

JUICE OF LEMON.

WHILST what I write I do not see,
I dare thus, ev'n to you, write poetry.
Ah, foolish Muse! which dost so high aspire,
And know'st her judgment well,
How much it does thy power excel,
Yet dar'st be read by, thy just doom, the fire.
Alas! thou think'st thyself secure,
Because thy form is innocent and pure:
Like hypocrites, which seem unspotted here;
But, when they sadly come to die,
And the last fire their truth must try,
Scrawl'd o'er like thee, and blotted, they appear.

Yet, if thine own unworthiness

Will still that thou art mine, not her's, confess, Consume thyself with fire before her eyes,

And so her grace or pity move :

The gods, though beasts they do not love, Yet like them when they 're burnt in sacrifice.

INCONSTANCY.

FIVE

IVE years ago (says story) I lov'd you,
For which you call me most inconstant now.
Pardon me, madam, you mistake the man,
For I am not the same that I was then;
No flesh is now the same 'twas then in me,
And that my mind is chang'd, yourself may see.
The same thoughts to retain still, and intents,
Were more inconstant far; for accidents
Must of all things most strangely inconstant
prove,

If from one subject they t' another move;
My members then the father members were,
From whence these take their birth which now
are here.

If then this body love what th' other did,
"Twere incest; which by Nature is forbid.
You might as well this day inconstant name,
Because the weather is not still the same
That it was yesterday—or blame the year,
'Cause the spring flowers, and autumn fruit, does

bear.

The world's a scene of changes; and to be
Constant, in Nature were inconstancy;
For 'twere to break the laws herself has made:
Our substances themselves do fleet and fade;
The most fix'd being still does move and fly,
Swift as the wings of Time 'tis measur'd by.
T imagine then that love should never cease
(Love, which is but the ornament of these)
Were quite as senseless, as to wonder why
Beauty and colour stays not when we die.

NOT FAIR.

'Tis very true, I thought you once as fair As women in th' idea are; Whatever here seems beauteous, seem'd to be But a faint metaphor of thee: But then, methoughts, there something shin'd, within,

Which cast this lustre o'er thy skin; Nor could I chuse but count it the Sun's light, Which made this cloud appear so bright. But, since I knew thy falschood and thy pride,

And all thy thousand faults beside,

A very Moor, methinks, plac'd near to thee,
White as his teeth would seem to be.
So men (they say) by Hell's delusions led,
Have ta'en a succubus to their bed;
Believe it fair, and themselves happy call,
Till the cleft foot discovers all :

Then they start from 't, half ghosts themselves with fear;

And devil, as 'tis, it does appear.

Can that for true love pass,

When a fair woman courts her glass? Something unlike must in Love's likeness be; His wonder is, one, and variety:

For he, whose soul nought but a soul can move, Does a new Narcissus prove,

And his own image love.

trust,

And shut the body from 't, 'tis as unjust As if I brought my dearest friend to see My mistress, and at th' instant he Should steal her quite from me.

THE CHANGE.

Love in her sunny eyes does basking play; Love walks the pleasant mazes of her hair; Love does on both her lips for ever stray, And sows and reaps a thousand kisses there: In all her outward parts Love's always seen;

But oh! he never went within.

With me, alas! quite contrary it fares; Darkness and death lie in my weeping eyes, Despair and paleness in my face appears, And grief, and fear, Love's greatest enemies;

"Tis not the linen shows so fair;

Her skin shines through, and makes it bright:

So clouds themselves like suns appear,

When the Sun pierces them with light:
So, lilies in a glass enclose,
The glass will seem as white as those.
Thou now one heap of beauty art;
Nought outwards, or within, is foul:
Condensed beams make every part;
Thy body's cloathed like thy soul;
Thy soul, which does itself display,
Like a star plac'd i' th' milky-way.
Such robes the saints departed wear,
Woven all with light divine;
Such their exalted bodies are,
And with such full glory shine:
But they regard not mortals' pain;
Men pray, I fear, to both in vain.

My hopes will needs continue still;
Thou would'st not take this garment, sure,
When thou hadst an intent to kill!
Of peace and yielding who would doubt,
When the white flag he sees hung out?

LEAVING ME, AND THEN LOVING MANY.

So men, who once have cast the truth away,
Forsook by God, do strange wild lusts obey;
So the vain Gentiles, when they left t'adore
One deity, could not stop at thousands more:
Their zeal was senseless straight, and boundless,
grown;

They worship'd many a beast and many a stone.
Ah, fair apostate! couldst thou think to flee
From truth and goodness, yet keep unity?
I reign'd alone; and my blest self could call
The universal monarch of her all.
Mine, mine, her fair East-Indies were above,
Where those suns rise that cheer the world of

Love;

Where beauties shine like gems of richest price; Where coral grows, and every breath is spice: Mine too her rich West-Indies were below, Where mines of gold and endless treasures grow.