Part 22 (1/2)

Intelligences shall I leave, and be Familiar only with mortality?

Must I know nought, but thy exchequer? shall My purse and fancy be symmetrical?

Are there no objects left but one? must we In gaining that, lose our variety?

Fortune, this is the reason I refuse Thy wealth; it puts my books all out of use.

'Tis poverty that makes me wise; my mind Is big with speculation, when I find My purse as Randolph's was, and I confess There is no blessing to an emptiness!

The species of all things to me resort And dwell then in my breast, as in their port.

Then leave to court me with thy hated store; Thou giv'st me that, to rob my soul of more.

TO I. MORGAN OF WHITEHALL, ESQ., UPON HIS SUDDEN JOURNEY AND SUCCEEDING MARRIAGE.

So from our cold, rude world, which all things tires, To his warm Indies the bright sun retires.

Where, in those provinces of gold and spice, Perfumes his progress, pleasures fill his eyes, Which, so refresh'd, in their return convey Fire into rubies, into crystals, day; And prove, that light in kinder climates can Work more on senseless stones, than here on man.

But you, like one ordain'd to s.h.i.+ne, take in Both light and heat, can love and wisdom spin Into one thread, and with that firmly tie The same bright blessings on posterity: Which so entail'd, like jewels of the crown, Shall, with your name, descend still to your own.

When I am dead, and malice or neglect The worst they can upon my dust reflect; --For poets yet have left no names, but such As men have envied or despis'd too much-- You above both--and what state more excels, Since a just fame like health, nor wants, nor swells?-- To after ages shall remain entire, And s.h.i.+ne still spotless, like your planet's fire.

No single l.u.s.tre neither; the access Of your fair love will yours adorn and bless; Till, from that bright conjunction, men may view A constellation circling her and you.

So two sweet rose-buds from their virgin-beds First peep and blush, then kiss and couple heads, Till yearly blessings so increase their store, Those two can number two-and-twenty more, And the fair bank--by Heav'n's free bounty crown'd-- With choice of sweets and beauties doth abound, Till Time, which families, like flowers, far spreads, Gives them for garlands to the best of heads.

Then late posterity--if chance, or some Weak echo, almost quite expir'd and dumb, Shall tell them who the poet was, and how He liv'd and lov'd thee too, which thou dost know-- Straight to my grave will flowers and spices bring, With lights and hymns, and for an offering There vow this truth, that love--which in old times Was censur'd blind, and will contract worse crimes If hearts mend not--did for thy sake in me Find both his eyes, and all foretell and see.

FIDA; OR, THE COUNTRY BEAUTY. TO LYSIMACHUS.

Now I have seen her; and by Cupid The young Medusa made me stupid!

A face, that hath no lovers slain, Wants forces, and is near disdain.

For every fop will freely peep At majesty that is asleep.

But she--fair tyrant!--hates to be Gaz'd on with such impunity.

Whose prudent rigour bravely bears And scorns the trick of whining tears, Or sighs, those false alarms of grief, Which kill not, but afford relief.

Nor is it thy hard fate to be Alone in this calamity, Since I who came but to be gone, Am plagu'd for merely looking on.

Mark from her forehead to her foot What charming sweets are there to do't.

A head adorn'd with all those glories That wit hath shadow'd in quaint stories, Or pencil with rich colours drew In imitation of the true.

Her hair, laid out in curious sets And twists, doth show like silken nets, Where--since he play'd at hit or miss-- The G.o.d of Love her pris'ner is, And fluttering with his skittish wings Puts all her locks in curls and rings.

Like twinkling stars her eyes invite All gazers to so sweet a light, But then two arched clouds of brown Stand o'er, and guard them with a frown.

Beneath these rays of her bright eyes, Beauty's rich bed of blushes lies.

Blushes which lightning-like come on, Yet stay not to be gaz'd upon; But leave the lilies of her skin As fair as ever, and run in, Like swift salutes--which dull paint scorn-- 'Twixt a white noon and crimson morn.

What coral can her lips resemble?

For hers are warm, swell, melt, and tremble: And if you dare contend for red, This is alive, the other dead.

Her equal teeth--above, below-- All of a size and smoothness grow.

Where under close restraint and awe --Which is the maiden tyrant law-- Like a cag'd, sullen linnet, dwells Her tongue, the key to potent spells.