Gives them for garlands to the best of heads.
Then late posterity-if chance, or some
Weak eccho, 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:

Strait 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 sce.

FIDA: OR THE COUNTREY BEAUTY
TO LYSIMACHUS.

OW I have seen her; and by Cupid
The young Medusa made me stupid!
A face, that hath no lovers slain1

Wants forces, and is near disdain.
For every fop will freely peep
At majesty that is asleep.

But she-fair tyrant!-hates to be

1 Misprinted 'stain'. G.

Gaz'd on with such impunity.

Whose prudent rigor bravely bears
And scorns the trick of whining tears,
Or sighs, those false all-arms 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 meerly looking on.

Mark from her forhead to her foot What charming sweets are there to do't. A head adorn'd with all those glories

That Witt hath shadow'd in quaint stories:

Or pencill with rich colours drew

In imitation of the true.

Her hair lay'd out in curious setts

And twists, doth show like silken nets,

Where since he play'd at hitt or miss :

The god 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're, and guard them with a frown.

Beneath these rayes of her bright eyes, Beautie's rich bed of blushes lyes.

VOL. II.

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 morne.

What corall can her lips resemble?

For her's 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 cise,' 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.

:

Her skin, like heav'n when calm and bright,

Shews a rich azure under white,

With touch more soft than heart supposes,

And breath as sweet as new blown roses.

Betwixt this head-land and the main,

Which is a rich and flowrie plain :

Lyes her fair neck, so fine and slender,

That-gently-how you please, 'twill bend her. This leads you to her heart, which ta'ne

1 = size. G.

Pants under sheets of whitest lawn,
And at the first seems much distrest,
But nobly treated, lyes at rest.

Here like two balls of new fall'n snow,
Her breasts, Love's native pillows grow;
And out of each a rose-bud peeps,
Which infant Beauty sucking, sleeps.

Say now my Stoic, that mak'st soure faces

At all the Beauties and the Graces,

That criest unclean! though known thy self

To ev'ry coarse and dirty shelfe:
Couldst thou but see a piece like this,

A piece so full of sweets and bliss:

In shape so rare, in soul so rich,

Wouldst thou not swear she is a witch?

FIDA FORSAKEN.

OOL that I was! to believe blood

While swoll'n with greatness, then most

good;

And the false thing, forgetful man,

To trust more than our true god, Pan;

Such swellings to a dropsie tend,

And nearest things such great ones bend.

Then live deceived! and Fida by
That life destroy fidelity.

For living wrongs will make some wise,
While Death chokes lowdest injuries:
And skreens the faulty, making blinds
To hide the most unworthy minds.

And yet do what thou can'st to hide,
A bad tree's fruit will be describ'd.
For that foul guilt which first took place

In his dark heart, now damns his face :

And makes those eyes, where life should dwell.

Look like the pits of Death and Hell.

Bloud, whose rich purple shews and seals

Their faith in moors, in him reveals,

A blackness at the heart, and is

Turn'd inke, to write his faithlesness.

Only his lips with bloud look red,

As if asham'd of what they fed.
Then, since he wears in a dark skin
The shadows of his hell within,
Expose him no more to the light,
But thine own epitaph thus write:
'Here burst, and dead and unregarded
Lyes Fida's heart! O well rewarded!"