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This chrystal here,
And carries in its womb a little day,
Impure as dust, as dark as clay.
E’en such will prove
When age shall soil the lustre of thine eyes, And all that red remove
That on thy spicy lip now lies !
Nor can a hand
By any art, these ruins into frame ;
And ne'er compose the former same.
Such is the case
Both desperate, in this you disagree ;
It, of itself, will constant be.
Distil not poison in mine ears,
Aerial Syrens, nor untie
Dance to a silent harmony.
Could I but follow where you lead,
Disrob’d of earth, and plum'd by air, Then I my tenuous self might spread,
As quick as fancy, every where.
But I'll make sallies now and then ;
Thus can my unconfined eye Take journey and return again,
Yet on her chrystal couch still lie. ·
Was author of“ Hippolitus, translated out of Seneca, together
“ with divers other poems,” 1651, 12mo. Langbaine, who mentions this work, professes never to have seen it. See Prestwich's “ Respublica," 1777.'
[From 9 stanzas.]
Did you behold that glorious star, my dear, Which shin'd but now, methought, as bright
As any other child of light,
How suddenly it fell, our eyes
And were you not with wonder struck, to see
Those forms, which the creation had
At first in number perfect made, Thus sometimes more, and sometimes less to be ?
Or rather, in this second birth,
Fair one, these different lights do represent
Such as pretend unto the love
Of you, of which some meteors prove,
And some, that seem as bright and fair,
Yet these false glow-worm fires a while do shine
Equal to the most heaven-born flame,
And so well counterfeit the same,
But should some blind unlucky chance
A remedy against Love.
[From 8 stanzas.]
If thou like her flowing tresses
Which the unshorn Phæbus stain, 'Think what grief thy heart oppresses,
And how every curl's a chain,
If thou’rt wounded by her eyes
Where thou thinkest Cupids lie, Think thyself the sacrifice,
Those the priests that make thee die. If her forehead beauteous show, Think her forehead Cupid's bow.
If the roses thou hast seen
In her cheek still flourishing Argue that there dwells within
A calm and perpetual spring, Though she never us’d deceit, Believe all is counterfeit.
If her tempting voice have power
To amaze and ravish thee,