That like a Spirit with this Spell
Of my own Teaching I am caught.

The Eagle's Fate and mine are one,

Which on the Shaft that made him die Efpy'd a Feather of his own,

Wherewith he wont to foar fo high.

Had Eccho, with fo fweet a Grace,
Narciffus' loud Complaints return'd,
Not for Reflection of his Face,

But of his Voice, the Boy had burn'd.

Of the Marriage of the Dwarfs.

Efign or Chance makes others Wive,

DE

But Nature did this Match contrive;

Eve might as well have Adam fled,

As the deny'd her little Bed

To him, for whom Heav'n feem'd to frame,

And measure out this only Dame.

Thrice happy is that humble Pair
Beneath the level of all Care;

Over whofe Heads thofe Arrows fly
Of fad Diftruft and Jealoufie;
Secured in as high extream,

As if the World held none but them,

To

To him the fairest Nymphs do fhow

Like moving Mountains topt with Snow;
And ev'ry Man a Polypheme

Does to his Galatea feem;

None may prefume her Faith to prove;}
He proffers Death that proffers Love.

Ah, Chloris, that kind Nature thus
From all the World had fever'd us,
Creating for our felves us two,
As Love has me for only you.

LOVE'S FAREWELL

TReading the Path to Nobler Ends,

A long Farewel to Love I gave;

Refolv'd my Country, and my Friends,

All that remain'd of me fhould have.

And this Refolve no Mortal Dame,

None but those Eyes cou'd have o'crthrown,

The Nymph, I dare not, need not name,

So high, fo like her self alone.

Thus the tall Oak which now aspires

Above the Fear of private Fires,

Grown

Grown and defign'd for nobler Ufe,
Not to make warm but build the House,
Tho' from our meaner Flames fecurè,

Muft that which falls from Heav'n endure.

MADAM,

From a CHILD.

S in fome Climes the warmer Sun

As

Makes it full Summer e'er the Spring's begun, And with ripe Fruit the bending Boughs can load, Before our Violets dare look abroad:

So measure not by any common use,

The early Love your brighter Eyes produce.
When lately your fair Hand in Woman's Weed,
Wrap'd my glad Head, I wifh'd me fo indeed,
That hasty Time might never make me grow
Out of those Favours you afford me now;
That I might ever fuch Indulgence find,
And you not blush, or think your felf too kind,
Who now, I fear, while I thefe Joys express,
Begin to think how you may make them less :
The found of Love makes your foft Heart afraid,
And guard it self, tho' but a Child invade,
And innocently at your white Breaft throw
A Dart as white, a Ball of new fall'n Snow.

On

On a GIRDLE.

THAT which her flender Waste confin'd,
Shall now my joyful Temples bind;

No Monarch but wou'd give his Crown,
His Arms might do what this has done.

It was my Heav'ns extreamest Sphere,
The Pale which held that Lovely Deer;
My Joy, my Grief, my Hope, my Love,
Did all within this Circle move.

A narrow Compass, and yet there
Dwelt all that's Good, and all that's Fair:
Give me but what this Riban bound,
Take all the reft the Sun goes round.

For not approaching the Lady, who can do any thing but Sleep when she pleaseth.

Y Charge it is those Breaches to repair

MY

Which Nature takes from Sorrow, Toil and Care:

Reft to the Limbs, and Quiet I confer

On troubled Minds; but nought can add to her,

Whom

Whom Heav'n and her transcendent Thoughts have

plac'd

Above thofe Ills which wretched Mortals taste.

Bright as the deathless Gods, and happy, She
From all that may infringe Delight is free:
Love at her Royal Feet his Quiver lays,
And not his Mother with more haste obeys.
Such real Pleafure's, fuch true Joy's fufpence,
What Dream can I prefent to recompence?

Shou'd I with Lightning fill her awful Hand,
And make the Clouds feem all at her Command:
Or place her in Olympus Top, a Guest
Among th' Immortals, who with Nectar feast:
That poor wou'd feem, that Entertainment short
Of the true Splendor of her prefent Court;
Where all the Joys and all the Glories are
Of three great Kingdoms, fever'd from the Care.
I that of Fumes and humid Vapours made,
Afcending, do the Seat of Senfe invade,
No Cloud in fo ferene a Manfion find,
To over-cast her ever-fhining Mind,

Which holds refemblance with thofe fpotlefs Skies,
Where flowing Nilus want of Rain supplies;
That Crystal Heav'n, where Phœbus never shrouds
His golden Beams, nor wraps his Face in Clouds.
But what fo hard which Numbers cannot force?
So ftoops the Moon, and Rivers change their course:

The