A la MALADE.
AH lovely Amoret, the Care
Of all that know what's Good or Fair!
Is Heav'n become our Rival too?
Had the rich Gifts conferr'd on you,
So ample thence, the common end
Of giving Lovers, to pretend.
Hence to this pining Sickness (meant
To weary thee to a Confent
Of leaving us) no Pow'r is giv'n
Thy Beauties to impair, for Heav'n
Sollicits thee with fuch a Care,
As Rofes from their Stalks we tear,
When we wou'd still preserve them new,
And fresh as on the Bufh they grew.
With fuch a Grace you entertain,
And look with fuch Contempt on Pain,
That languishing you conquer more,
And wound us deeper than before.
So Lightnings which in Storms appear,
Scorch more than when the Skies are clear.
And as pale Sickness does invade
Your frailer Part, the Breaches made
In that fair Lodging, ftill more clear
Make the bright Gueft, your Soul, appear.
So Nymphs o'er pathlefs Mountains born,
Their light Robes by the Brambles torn
From their fair Limbs, exposing new
And unknown Beauties to the view
Of following Gods, increase their Flame,
And Hafte to catch the flying Game.
Of the QUEEN.
'HE Lark that fhuns on lofty Boughs to build
Her humble Neft, lies filent in the Field;
But if the promise of a Cloudless Day,
(Aurora fmiling,) bids her rife and Play,
Then ftrait fhe fhews, 'twas not for want of Voice,
Or Pow'r to climb, she made fo low a Choice:
Singing the mounts, her airy Wings are stretcht
Tow'rds Heav'n, as if from Heav'n her Note fhe fetcht.
So we retiring from the bufie Throng,
Use to restrain th' ambition of our Song;
But fince the Light, which now informs our Age,
Freaks from the Court indulgent to her Rage,
"Thither my Mufe, like bold Prometheus, flies,
To light her Torch at Gloriana's Eyes.
Thofe Sov'reign Beams, which heal the wounded Soul, And all our Cares, but once beheld, controul!
Here the poor Lover that has long endur'd
Some proud Nymph's Scorn, of his fond Paffion cur'd,
Fares like the Man who first upon the Ground
A Glow-worm fpy'd, fuppofing he had found
A moving Diamond, a breathing Stone,
(For Life it had, and like those Jewels shone:)
He held it dear, 'till by the fpringing Day,
Inform'd, he threw the worthless Worm away..
She faves the Lover as we Gangrenes stay,
By cutting Hope, like a lopt Limb, away:
This makes her bleeding Patients to accuse
High Heav'n, and these Expoftulations use.
Cou'd Nature then no private Woman grace
(Whom we might dare to Love) with fuch a Face
Such a Complexion, and fo radiant Eyes,
Such lovely Motion, and such sharp Replies?
Beyond our Reach, and yet within our Sight,
What envious Pow'r has plac'd this glorious Light?
Thus, in a Starry Night, fond Children cry
For the rich Spangles that adorn the Sky;
Which tho' they shine for ever fixed there,
With Light and Influence relieve us here.
All her Affections are to one enclin'd,
Her Bounty and Compassion to Mankind:
To whom while fhe fo far extends her Grace,
She makes but good the Promife of her Face:
For Mercy has (cou'd Mercy's felf be feen)
No fweeter Look than this propitious Queen;
Such Guard and Comfort the Diftreffed find,
From her large Pow'r, and from her larger Mind,
That whom ill Fate wou'd ruin, it prefers;
For all the Miferable are made Her's..
So the fair Tree, whereon the Eagle builds,
Poor Sheep from Tempests, and their Shepherds, fhields: The Royal Bird poffeffes all the Boughs,
But Shade and Shelter to the Flock allows.
Joy of our Age, and Safety of the next,
For which so oft thy fertile Womb is vext:
Nobly contented, for the Publick Good,
To wafte thy Spirits, and diffuse thy Blood:
What vaft hopes may these Islands entertain,
Where Monarchs, thus defcended, are to Reign?
Led by Commanders of so fair a Line,
Our Seas no longer fhall our Pow'r confine.
A brave Romance who wou'd exactly frame,
First brings his Knight from fome immortal Dame:
And then a Weapon, and a flaming Shield,
Bright as his Mother's Eyes, he makes him wield.
None might the Mother of Achilles be,
But the fair Pearl, and Glory of the Sea;
The Man to whom great Maro gives fuch Fame,
From the high Bed of Heav'nly Venus came;
And our next Charles, (whom all the Stars design
Like Wonders to accomplish) Springs from thine,
Upon the Death of my Lady RICH.
AY thofe already curft Effexian Plains,
Where hafty Death, and pining Sickness reigns,
Prove as a Defart, and none there make stay,
But Savage Beafts, or Men as wild as they.
There the fair Light, which all our Island grac'd,
Like Hero's Taper in the Window plac'd,
Such Fate from the malignant Air did find,
As that exposed to the boift'rous Wind.
Ah cruel Heav'n! to fnatch fo foon away
Her, for whofe Life had we had time to pray,
With thousand Vows and Tears we shou'd have fought
That fad Decree's Sufpenfion to have wrought.
But we (alas!) no whisper of her Pain
Heard, 'till 'twas Sin to wish her here again.
That horrid Word at once like Lightning fpread,
Struck all our Ears, The Lady Rich is Dead.
Heart-rending News, and dreadful to those few
Who her refemble, and her Steps pursue:
That Death fhou'd License have to rage among
The Fair, the Wife, the Virtuous, and the Young!
The Paphian Queen from that fierce Battel born,' ]
With gored Hand, and Veil fo rudely torn,
Like Terror did among th' Immortals breed,
Taught by her Wound that Goddeffes may bleed.
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