Amoret, my lovely Foe,
Tell me where thy Strength does lye:
Where the Pow'r that Charms us fo,
In thy Soul, or in thy Eye?
By that fnowy Neck alone,
Or thy grace in Motion feen,
No fuch Wonders cou'd be done:
Yet thy Wafte is ftreight and clean,
As Cupid's Shaft, or Hermes' Rod,
And pow'rful too, as either God,
To My Lord of FALKLAND.
In the Year 1638.
BRave Holland leads, and with him Falkland goes;
Who hears this told, and does not straight suppose
We fend the Graces and the Mufes forth,
To Civilize, and to inftruct the North?
Not that thefe Ornaments make Swords lefs fharp,
Apollo bears as well his Bow as Harp;
And tho' he be the Patron of that Spring,
Where in calm Peace the Sacred Virgins fing,
He Courage had to guard th' invaded Throne
Of Jove, and caft th' ambitious Giants down.
Ah, noble Friend, with what Impatience all
That know thy Worth, and know how prodigal
Of thy great Soul thou art, longing to twist
Bays with that Ivy, which fo early kift
Thy youthful Temples, with what Horror we
Think on the blind Events of War, and Thee?
To Fate expofing that all-knowing Breast
Among the Throng, as cheaply as the rest:
Where Oaks and Brambles (if the Copfe be burn'd
Confounded lye to the fame Ashes turn'd.
Some happy Wind over the Ocean blow
This Tempest yet which frights our Island fo;
Guarded with Ships, and all the Sea our own,
From Heav'n this mischief on our Heads is thrown.
In a late Dream, the Genius of this Land,
Amaz'd, I faw, like the fair Hebrew stand,
When first she felt the Twins begin to jar,
And found her Womb the Seat of Civil War:
Inclin'd to whofe Relief, and with Prefage
Of better Fortune for the prefent Age,
Heav'n fends, quoth I, this Discord for our good,
To warm, perhaps, but not to waste, our Blood,
To raise our drooping Spirts, grown the Scorn
Of our proud Neighbours, who e'erlong shall mourn
(Tho' now they joy in our expected Harms)
We had occafion to resume our Arms.
A Lion fo with felf-provoking Smart,
(His rebel Tail fcourging his nobler Part,)
Calls up his Courage, then begins to roar,
And charge his Foes, who thought him mad before,
For Drinking of Healths.
ET Brutes and Vegetals, that cannot think,
So far as Drought and Nature urges, Drink:
A more indulgent Mistress guides our Sprights,
Reason, that dares beyond our Appetites;
She wou'd our Care as well as Thirft redrefs,
And with Divinity rewards Excess:
Deferted Ariadne, thus fupply'd,
Did perjur'd Thefeus' Cruelty deride;
Bacchus embrac'd, from her exalted Thought
Banifh'd the Man, her Paffion, and his Fault.
Bacchus and Phoebus are by Jove ally'd,
And each by other's timely Heat's fupply'd:
All that the Grape owes to his ripening Fires,
Is paid in Numbers which their Juice inspires.
Wine fills the Veins, and Healths are understood,
To give our Friend a Title to our Blood:
Who naming me, doth warm his Courage fo,
Shews for my fake what his bold Hand wou'd do.
Hloris farewel; I now must go:
For if with thee I longer stay,
Thy Eyes prevail upon me fo,
I fhall prove Blind, and lofe my Way.
Fame of thy Beauty, and thy Youth,
Among the reft, me hither brought: Finding this Fame fall short of Truth, Made me stay longer than I thought,
For I'm engag'd by Word, and Oath,
A Servant to another's Will;
Yet, for thy Love, I'd forfeit both,
Cou'd I be fure to keep it still.
But what Affurance can I take?
When thou, foreknowing this Abuse, For fome more worthy Lover's fake, May'ft leave me with so just Excufe.
For thou may'st say 'twas not thy Fault
That thou didst thus inconftant prove,
Being by my Example taught
To break thy Oath, to mend thy Love.
VI.
No Chloris, no; I will return,
And raise thy Story to that height,
That Strangers fhall at distance burn,
And fhe diftruft me Reprobate.
VII.
Then fhall my Love this Doubt difplace,
And gain fuch Truft, that I may come
And banquet fometimes on thy Face,
But make my conftant Meals at home.
On my Lady Isabella playing on the Lute. Such moving Sounds, from fuch a careless Touch,
So unconcern'd her felf, and we so much!
What Art is this, that with fo little Pains
Transports us thus, and o'er our Spirits reigns!
The trembling Strings about her Fingers crowd,
And tell their Joy for ev'ry Kifs aloud:
Small Force there needs to make them tremble fo;
Touch'd by that Hand who wou'd not tremble too?
Here Love takes ftand, and while she charms the Ear,、
Empties his Quiver on the lift'ning Deer;
Mufick fo foftens and difarms the Mind,
That not an Arrow does Resistance find.
Thus the fair Tyrant celebrates the Prize,
And acts her felf the Triumph of her Eyes.
So Nero once, with Harp in Hand, furvey'd
His flaming Rome, and as it burnt he play'd.
To a Lady Singing a Song of his Compofing.
Hloris, your felf you so excel,
When you vouchsafe to breath my Thought,
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