Thy skilful hand contributes to our woe,
And whets those arrows which confound us fo
A thousand Cupids in those curls do fit,
(Those curious nets!) thy flender fingers knit:
The Graces put not more exactly on
Th' attire of Venus, when the Ball she won
Than Sacharissa by thy care is dreft,
When all our youth prefers her to the rest.

You the soft season know, when best her mind
May be to pity or to love inclin'd:
In some well-chosen hour fupply his fear,
Whose hopeless love durst never tempt the ear
Of that stern Goddess: you, her priest, declare
What offerings may propitiate the Fair:
Rich orient pearl, bright stones that ne'er decay,
Or polish'd lines which longer last than they.
For if I thought she took delight in those,
To where the chearful morn does first disclose
(The shady night removing with her beams)
Wing'd with bold love, I'd fly to fetch such gems.
But fince her eyes, her teeth, her lip excels
All that is found in mines, or fishes' shells;
Her nobler part as far exceeding these,
None but immortal gifts her mind should please.
The shining jewels Greece and Troy bestow'd
On * Sparta's Queen, her lovely neck did load,
And snowy wrists: but when the town was burn'd,
Those fading glories were to ashes turn'd:

*Helen.

Her

Her beauty too had perish'd, and her fame,
Had not the Muse redeem'd them from the flame.

W

HILE in the park I fing, the liftening deer
Attend my paffion, and forget to fear :

When to the beeches I report my flame,
They bow their heads, as if they felt the fame:
To Gods appealing, when I reach their Bowers
With loud complaints, they answer me in showers.
To Thee a wild and cruel foul is given,
More deaf than trees, and prouder than the heaven!
Love's foe profess'd! why dost thou falsly feign
Thyself a Sidney ? from which noble strain
* He sprung, that could fo far exalt the name
Of Love, and warm our nation with his flame;
That all we can of love or high defire,
Seems but the smoke of amorous Sidney's fire.
Nor call her mother, who so well does prove
One breast may hold both chastity and love.
Never can she, that so exceeds the spring
In joy and bounty, be suppos'd to bring
One so destructive: to no human stock
We owe this fierce unkindness; but the rock
That cloven rock produc'd thee, by whose fide
Nature, to recompence the fatal pride
Of such stern beauty, plac'd those † healing springs,
Which not more help, than that destruction brings.

Sir Philip Sidney. + Tunbridge-Wells.

Thy

Thy heart no ruder than the rugged stóne,
I might, like Orpheus, with my numerous moan
Melt to compaffion: now, my traiterous song
With thee conspires, to do the finger wrong:

While thus I suffer not myself to lose
The memory of what augments my woes:
But with my own breath still foment the fire,
Which flames as high as fancy can afpire!

This last complaint th' indulgent ears did pierce
Of just Apollo, president of verse;
Highly concerned that the Muse should bring
Damage to one, whom he had taught to fing;
Thus he advis'd me: "On yon aged tree
" Hang up thy lute, and hie thee to the sea;
"That there with wonders thy diverted mind
"Some truce at least may with this passion find."
Ah cruel Nymph! from whom her humble swain
Flies for relief unto the raging Main ;
And from the winds and tempests does expect
A milder fate, than from her cold neglect !
Yet there he 'll pray, that the unkind may prove
Bleft in her choice; and vows this endless love
Springs from no hope of what she can confer,
But from those gifts which Heaven has heap'd on her.

To my young Lady Lucy SIDNEY.
HY came I so untimely forth
Into a world, which, wanting thee,

W

Could entertain us with no worth,
Or shadow of felicity?

That That time should me so far remove

From that which I was born to love!

Yet, fairest blossom! do not flight

That age which you may know so foon:

The rofy morn resigns her light,

And milder giory, to the noon :

And then what wonders shail you do,
Whose dawning beauty warms us fo?

Hope waits upon the flowery prime;

And fummer, though it be less gay,
Yet is not look'd on as a time

Of declination, or decay:
For, with a full hand, that does bring
All that was promis'd by the spring.

TO AMORET.

F

AIR! that you may truly know
What you unto Thyris awe;

I will tell you how I do
Sacharissa love, and You.

Joy falutes me, when I fet

My bleft eyes on Amoret :
But with wonder I am strook,
While I on the other look:

If sweet Amoret complains,
I have sense of all her pains :
But for Sacharifsa I
Do not only grieve, but die.
All that of myself is mine,
Lovely Amoret! is thine,
Sacharifla's captive fain
Would untie his iron chain;
And, those scorching beams to thun,
To thy gentle shadow run.

If the foul had free election
To dispose of her affection;
I would not thus long have borne
Haughty Sacharifssa's scorn :
But 'tis fure some Power above,
Which controls our wills in love!
If not a love, a strong defire
To create and spread that fire
In my breast, sollicits me,
Beauteous Amoret! for thee.

'Tis amazement more than love,
Which her radiant eyes do move :
If less splendor wait on thine,
Yet they so benignly shine,
I would turn my dazzled sight
To behold their milder light.
But as hard 'tis to destroy
That high flame, as to enjoy :
Which how eas'ly I may do,
Heaven (as eas'ly scal'd) does know

Amoret!