And yet I fcarcely blame them now;
For who, alas! would not allow,
That women fhould fuch gifts receive,
Could they, as he, be what they give.

If thou, my dear, thyfelf fhouldft prize,
Alas! what value would fuffice?
The Spaniard could not dot, though he
Should to both Indies jointure thec.
Thy beauties therefore wrong will take,
If thou fhouldft any bargain make;
To give all, will befit thee well;
But not at under-rates to fell.

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 verfe enshrin'd,
Shall grow immortal as thy mind.

I'll fix thy title next in fame
To Sachariffa's well-fung name.
So faithfully will I declare
What all thy wond'rous beauties are,
That when, at the last great affize,
All women fhall together rife,
Men ftrait fhall caft their eyes on thec,
And know at first that thou art fhe.

The trees as beauteous are, and flowers as gay,
As ever they were wont to be;

Nay, the birds' rural mufic too

Is as melodious and as free,

As if they fung to pleasure you :

I faw a rofe-bud ope this morn-I'll fwear
The blushing morning open'd not more fair.

How could it be fo fair, and you away?
How could the trees be beauteous, flowers fo gay?
Could they remember but last year,
How you did them, they you, delight,
The fprouting leaves which faw you here,
And call'd their fellows to the fight,
Would, looking round for the fame fight in vain,
Creep back into their filent barks again.

Where'er you walk'd, trees were as reverend made,
As when of old Gods dwelt in every fhade,
Is 't poffible they fhould not know,
What lofs of honour they fuftain,
That thus they fmile and flourish now,
And ftill their former pride retain?
Dull creatures! 'tis not without cause that she,
Who fled the God of Wit, was made a trec.
In ancient times, fure, they much wifer were,
When they rejoic'd the Thracian verse to hear;

In vain did Nature bid them ftay,"
When Orpheus had his fong begun
They call'd their wondering roots away,
And bade them filent to him run.

How would thofe learned trees have follow'd you!
You would have drawn them and their poet too.

But who can blame them now? for, fince you're

gone,

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

The thickeft boughs could make no flade,
Although the fun had granted it :

The fairest flowers could please no more, near you,
Than painted flowers, fet next to them, could do.
Whene'er then you come hither, that shall be
The time, which this to others is, to me.
The little joys which here are now,
The name of punishments do bear;
When by their fight they let us know
How we depriv'd of greater are:

'Tis you the best of feasons with you bring;
This is for beafts, and that for men, the Spring.

WRITTEN IN

JUICE OF LEMON.

W dare thus, ev'n to you, write poetry.

HILST what I write I do not fee,

Ah, foolish Mufe! which doft fo high aspire,
And know'ft her judgment well,

How much it does thy power excel,
Yet dar'st be read by, thy just doom, the fire.

Alas! thou think it thyself fecure,
Becaufe thy form is innocent and pure:
Like hypocrites, which feem unfpotted here;
But, when they fadly come to die,
And the last fire their truth must try,.
Scrawl' o'er like thee, and blotted, they appear.

Go then, but reverently go,

And, fince thou needs must fin, confefs it too:
Confefs 't, and with humility clothe thy fhame;
For thou, who elfe muft burned be
An heretic, if the pardon thee,
May't like a martyr then enjoy the flame.

But, if her wifdom grow fevere,
If her large mercies cruelly' it restrain;
And fuffer not her goodness to be there;
Be not difcourag'd, but require
A more gentle ordeal fire,

And bid her by Love's flames read it again.

Strange power of heat! thou yet doft show
Like winter-earth, naked or cloath'd with fnow:
the quickening fun approaching near,
The plants arife up by degrees;

But as,

A fudden paint adorns the trees,
And all kind Nature's characters appear.

So, nothing yet in thee is feen;

But, when a genial heat warms thee within,

A new-born wood of various lines there grows;
Here buds an A, and there a B,
Here sprouts a V, and there a T,
And all the flourishing letters ftand in rows.
Still, filly paper! thou wilt think

That all this might as well be writ with ink: Oh, no; there's fenfe in this, and mystery

Thou now may'ft change thy author's name, And to her hand lay noble claim;

For, as he reads, fhe makes, the words in thee.

Yet if thine own unworthiness

Will ftill that thou art mine, not her's, confefsConfume thyfelf with fire before her eyes, And fo her grace or pity move:

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

INCONSTANCY.

FIVE years ago (fays Story) I lov'd you,

For which you call me moft inconftant now; Pardon me, Madam! you mistake the man, For I am not the fame that I was then; No flesh is now the faine 'twas then in me; And that my mind is chang'd, yourself may fee. The fame thoughts to retain ftill, and intents, Were more inconftant far; for accidents Muft of all things moft ftrangely' inconftant prove, If from one fubject they t' another move; My members then the father-members were From whence thefe take their birth which now are here.

If then this body love what th' other did,
'Twere inceft; which by Nature is forbid.
You might as well this day inconftant name,
Becaufe the weather is not ftill the fame
That it was yesterday-or blame the year,
'Caufe the fpring flowers, and autumn fruit, does
bear.

The world's a fcene of changes; and to be
Conftant, in Nature were inconftancy;
For 'twere to break the laws herfelf has made :
Our fubftances themfelves do fleet and fade;
The most fix'd being ftill does move and fly,
Swift as the wings of time 'tis meafur'd by.
T'imagine then that Love fhould never ceafe
(Love, which is but the ornament of thefe)
Were quite as fenfelefs, as to wonder why
Beauty and colour ftays not when we die.

But, fince I knew thy falfehood and thy pride,
And all thy thousand faults befide,

A very Moor, methinks, plac'd near to thee,
White as his teeth would feem to be.
So men (they fay) by hell's delufions led,
Have ta'en a fuccubus 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.

So, fince againft my will I found thee foul,
Deform'd and crooked in thy foul,
My reafon ftrait did to my fenfes fhew,

That they might be mistaken too :
Nay, when the world but knows how falfe you are,
There's not a man will think you fair;
Thy shape will monstrous in their fancies be,

They'll call their eyes as falfe as thee. Be what thou wilt, hate will prefent thee fo As Puritans do the Pope, and Papifts Luther do.

PLATONIC LOVE. NDEED I must confefs,

INDER

When fouls mix 'tis an happiness;.
But not compleat till bodies too combine,
And clofely as our minds together join
But half of heaven the fouls in glory taste,
Till by love in heaven, at last,
Their bodies too are plac'd.

In thy immortal part

Man, as well as I, thou art;

Eut fomething 'tis that differs thee and me;
And we muft one even in that difference bc.
I thee, both as a man and woman, prize;
For a perfect love implies
Love in all capacities.

Can that for true love pafs,

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

For he, whofe foul nought but a foul can move, Docs a new Narciffus prove,

And his own image love.

That fouls do beauty know,

'Tis to the bodies help they owe;

If, when they know 't, they ftrait abufe that trust,
And fhut the body from 't, 'tis as unjuft
As if I brought my dearest friend to fee
My miftrefs, and at th' inftant he
Should fteal her quite from me.

THE CHANGE.

OVE in her funny eyes does basking play; Love walls the pleafant mazes of her hair Love does on both her lips for ever stray, And fows and reaps a thousand kiffes there;

In all her outward parts Love's always feen;
But oh! he never went within.

Within, Love's foes, his greateft foes, abide,
Malice, Inconstancy, and Pride:

So, the earth's face trees, herbs, and flowers, do drefs,

With other beauties numberless;

But at the centre darkness is, and hell;

There wicked fpirits, and there the damned,

dwell.

With me, alas! quite contrary it fires;
Darkness and death lie in my weeping eyes,
Defpair and palenefs in my face appears,
And grief, and fear, Love's greatest enemies;
But, like the Perfian tyrant, Love within

Keeps his proud court, and ne'er is seen.

Oh! take my heart, and by that means you'll

prove

Within too ftor'd enough of love: Give me hut your's, I'll by that change fo thrive, That love in all my parts fhall live. So powerful is this change, it render can My outfide Woman, and your infide Man,

LEAVING ME, AND THEN LOVING MANY.

O men, who once have caft the truth away,
Forfork by God, do Trange wild lufts obey;
So the vain Gentiles, when they left t'adore
One Deity, could not ftop at thoufands more:
Their zeal was fenfelefs ftrait, and boundless,
grown;

They worship'd many a beaft and many a ftone.
Ah, fair apoftate! couldst thou think to flee
From Truth and Goodnefs, yet keep unity?
I reign'd alone; and my blett felf could call
The univerfal monarch of her all.

Mine, mine, her fair East-Indies were above,
Where thofe funs rife that cheer the world of
Love?

Where beauties fhine like gems of richest price;
Where coral grows, and every breath is fpice:
Mine too her rich Weft-Indies were below,
Where mines of gold and endless treafures grow.
But, as when the Pellæan conqueror dy'd,
Many mall princes did his crown divide;
So, fince my love his vanquifh'd world forfook,
Murder'd by poifons from her falfehood took,
An hundred petty kings claim each their part,
And end that glorious empire of her heart.

CLAD ALL IN WHITE.

AIREST thing that fhines below,

FWhy in this robe doit thou appear?

Would't thou a white most perfect show,
Thou must at all no garment wear:
Thou wilt feem much whiter fo,
Than winter when 'tis clad with fnow.

"Tis not the linen fhews fo fair;

Her skin shines through, and makes it bright;
So clouds themfelves like funs appear,
When the fun pierces them with light:
So, lilies in a glass inclofe,

The glafs will feem 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 foul;
Thy foul, which does itself difplay,
Like a ftar, plac'di' th' milky-way.

Such robes the faints departed wear,
Woven all with light divine;
Such their exalted bodies are,
And with fuch full glory fhine:
But they regard not mortals' pain;
Men pray, I fear, to both in vain.

Yet, feeing thee fo gently pure,
My hopes will needs continue ftill;
Thou would't not take this garment, fure,
When thou had an intent to kill!
Of peace and yielding who would doubt,
When the white flag he fees hung out?

MY HEART DISCOVERED.

He clear and tranfparent to the fight

ER body is fo gently bright,

(Clear as fair crystal to the view,
Yet foft as that, ere ftone it grew)
That through her flesh, methinks, is feen
The brighter foul that dwells within:
Our eyes the fubtile covering pafs,
And fee that lily through its glafs.
I through her breath her heart elpy,
As fouls in hearts do fouls defcry:
I fee 't with gentle motions beat;
I fee light in 't, but find no heat.
Within, like angels in the sky,
A thoufand gilded thoughts do fly;
Thoughts of bright and nobleft kind,
Fair and chafte as mother-mind.
But oh! what other heart is there,
Which fighs and crouds to her's fo near?
"Tis all on flame, and does, like fire,
To that, as to its heaven, afpire!
The wounds are many in't and deep;
Still does it bleed, and still does weep!
Whofe-ever wretched heart it be,

I cannot choofe but grieve to fee:
What pity in my caft does reign!
Methinks I feel too all its pain.

So torn, and fo defac'd, it lies,

That it could ne'er be known by th' eyes;
But oh! at last I heard it groan,

And knew by th' voice that 'twas mine owra

So poor Alcione, when fhe faw

A fhipwreck'd body tow'rds her draw,

ANSWER TO THE PLATONICS.

angels love; fo let them love for me;
When I'm all foul, fuch fhall my love too be:
Who nothing here but like a spirit would do,
In a fort time, believe 't, will be one too.
But, fhall our love do what in beafts we fee?
Eva beafts eat too, but not fo well as we :
And you as justly might in thirft refuse
The ufe of wine, because beafts water use:

They tafte- thofe pleasures as they do their food;
Undress'd they take 't, devour it raw and crude:
But to us men, Love cooks it at his fire,
And adds the poignant fauce of fharp defire.
Beafts do the fame: 'tis true; but ancient Fame
Says, Gods themselves turn'd beafts to do the fame.
The Thunderer, who, without the female bed,
Could Goddeffes bring-forth from out his head,
Chofe rather mortals this way to create;

So much he' efteem'd his pleasure 'bove his state.
Ye talk of fires which fhine, but never burn;
In this cold world they'll hardly ferve our turn;
As ufelefs to defpairing lovers grown,
Aslambent flames to men i' th' frigid zone.
The fun does his pure fires on earth bestow
With nuptial warmth, to bring-forth things below;
Such is Love's nobleft and divineft heat,
That warms like his, and does, like his, beget.
Luft you call this; a name to your's more just,
If an inordinate defire be luft:
Pygmalion, loving what none can enjoy,

More luftful was, than the hot youth of Troy.

THE VAIN LOVE.

LOVING ONE FIRST BECAUSE SHE COULD LOVE

NOBODY, AFTERWARDS LOVING HER

WITH DESIRE.

WHAT new-found witchcraft was in thee,

With thine own cold to kindle me?
Strange art like him that fhould devile
To make a burning glafs of ice:
When winter fo, the plants would harm,
Her foow itself does keep them warm.
Fool that I was! who, having found
A rich and funny diamond,
Admir'd the hardness of the ftone,

But not the light with which it fhone:
Your brave and haughty feorn of all
Was ftately and monarchical.

All gentleness, with that esteem'd,
A dull and flavish virtue feem'd;
Should'ft thou have yielded then to me,
'Thou'dft loft what I most lov'd in thee;
For who would ferve one, whom he fees
That he can conquer if he please?
It far'd with me, as if a flave

In triumph led, that does perceive
With what a gay majestic pride

His conqueror through the streets does ride,
Should be contented with his woe,
Which makes up fuch a comely fhow.
I fought not from thee a return,
But without hopes or fears did burn;
My covetous paflion did approve
The hoarding-up, not ufe, of love.
My love a kind of dream was grown,
A foolish, but a pleasant one:
From which I'm waken'd now; but, oh!
Prifoners to die are waken'd fo;
For now th' effects of loving are
Nothing but longings, with defpair:
Defpair, whofe torments no men, fure,

But lovers and the damn'd, endure.
Her fcorn I doated once upon,
Ill object for affection;

But fince, alas! too much 'tis prov'd,
That yet 'twas fomething that I lov'd;
Now my defires are worfe, and fly
At an impoflibility:

Defires which, whilt fo high they foar,
Are proud as that I lov'd before.
What lover can like me complain,
Who first lov'd vainly, next in vain!

THE SOUL.

IF mine eyes do e'er declare

They've feen a fecond thing that's fair; Or ears, that they have mufic found Befides thy voice, in any found;

If my taste do ever meet,

After thy kifs, with aught that's sweet;
If my abufed touch allow

Aught to be fmooth, or foft, but you;
If what feasonable springs,

Or the Eastern fummer, brings,
Do my fmell perfuade at all

Aught perfame, but thy breath, to call;
If all my fenfes' objects be

Not contracted into thee,

And fo through thee more powerful pafs,
As beams do through a burning-glais;
If all things that in nature are
Either foft, or fweet, or fair,
Be not in thee fo' epitomis'd,
That nought material's not compris'd;
May as worthless feem to thee
As all, but thou, appears to me!

If I ever anger know,

Till fome wrong be done to you;

I Gods or Kings my envy move,
Without their crowns crown'd by thy love;

62

If ever I an hope admit,
Without thy image ftamp'd on it;
Or any fear, till 1 begin

To find that you're concern'd therein;
If a joy e'er come to me,
That tastes of any thing but thee;
If any forrow touch my mind,
Whilft you are well, and not unkind;
If I a minute's space debate,
Whether I fhall curfe and hate
The things beneath thy hatred fall,
Though all the world, myfelf and all;
And for love-if ever I

Approach to it again fo nigh,
As to allow a toleration

To the leaft glimmering inclination :
If thou alone doft not controul
All thofe tyrants of my foul,
And to thy beauties ty'ft them fo,
That conftant they as habits grow;
If any paffion of my heart,

By any force, or any art,

Be brought to move one step from thee,
May'st thou no paffion have for me!

If my bufy' Imagination,

Do not thee in all things fafhion;
So that all fair fpecies be
Hieroglyphic marks of thee;
If when the her fports does keep
(The lower foul being all afleep)
She play one dream, with all her art,
Where thou haft not the longest part;
If aught get place in my remembrance,
Without fome badge of thy refemblance-
So that thy parts become to me
A kind of art of memory;-
If my Understanding do

Seek any knowledge but of you;
If fhe do near thy body prize
Her bodies of philofophics;
If the to the Will do fhew
Aught defirable but you;
Or, if that would not rebel,

Should the another doctrine tell,
If my Will do not refign
All her liberty to thine;
If he would not follow thee,

Though Fate and thou should'st difagree;
And if (for I a curfe will give,
Such as fhall force thee to believe)
My foul be not entirely thine;

May thy dear body ne'er be mine!

So in a zeal the fons of Ifrael

Sometimes upon their idols fell,
And they depos'd the powers of hell;
Baal and Aftarte down they threw,
And Acharon and Moloch too:
All this imperfect piety did no good,
Whilft yet, alas! the calf of Bethel flood.
Fondly I boaft, that I have dreft my vine
With painful art, and that the wine
Is of a tafte rich and divine;

Since Love, by mixing poison there,
Has made it worfe than vinegar.
Love ev'n the tafte of Nectar changes fo,
That Gods chufe rather water here below.

Fear, Anger, Hope, all paffions else that be,
Drive this one tyrant out of me,
And practife all your tyranny!

The change of ills fome good will do:
Th' oppreffed wretched Indians fo,

Being flaves by the great Spanish monarch made,
Call in the States of Holland to their aid.