To the Queen, entertain'd at night by the Countess of Anglesey.

'Aire as unshaded Light; or as the Day

as run the May;

Sweet, as the Altars smoak, or as the new
Unfolded Bud, sweld by the early dew;

Smooth, as the face of waters first appear'd,

Ere Tides began to strive, or Winds were heard:

Kind as the willing Saints, and calmer farre,

Than in their sleeps forgiven Hermits are:

You that are more, then our discreter feare

Dares praise, with such full Art, what make you here? 1Ο

Here, where the Summer is so little seen,

That leaves (her cheapest wealth) scarce reach at green,

You come, as if the silver Planet were

Misled a while from her much injur'd Sphere,

And t'ease the travailes of her beames to night,

In this small Lanthorn would contract her light.

Sir William Davenant.

For the Lady Olivia Porter; a Present upon a New-years Day.

Oe! hunt the whiter Ermine! and present

G His wealthy skin, as this dayes Tribute sent

To my Endimion's Love; Though she be farre
More gently smooth, more soft than Ermines are!

Goe! climbe that Rock! and when thou there hast found
A Star, contracted in a Diamond,

Give it Endimion's Love, whose glorious Eyes,
Darken the starry Jewels of the Skies!

Goe! dive into the Southern Sea! and when
Th'ast found (to trouble the nice sight of Men)
A swelling Pearle; and such whose single worth,
Boasts all the wonders which the Seas bring forth;
Give it Endimion's Love! whose ev'ry Teare,
Would more enrich the skilful Jeweller.
How I command? how slowly they obey?
The churlish Tartar, will not hunt to day:
Nor will that lazy, sallow-Indian strive
To climbe the Rock, nor that dull Negro dive.
Thus Poets like to Kings (by trust deceiv'd)
Give oftner what is heard of, than receiv'd.

Sir William Davenant.

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The Grasse-hopper.

Το my Noble Friend, Mr. Charles Cotton.

ODE.

H thou that swing'st upon the waving haire

OH

Of some well-filled Oaten Beard,

Drunke ev'ry night with a Delicious teare

Dropt thee from Heav'n, where now th'art reard.

The Joyes of Earth and Ayre are thine intire,
That with thy feet and wings dost hop and flye;
And when thy Poppy workes thou dost retire

To thy Carv'd Acron-bed to lye.

Up with the Day, the Sun thou welcomst then,
Sportst in the guilt-plats of his Beames,
And all these merry dayes mak'st merry men,
Thy selfe, and Melancholy streames.

But ah the Sickle! Golden Eares are Cropt;
Ceres and Bacchus bid goodnight;

Sharpe frosty fingers all your Flowr's have topt,
And what sithes spar'd, Winds shave off quite.

Poore verdant foole! and now green Ice! thy Joys
Large and as lasting as thy Peirch of Grasse,
Bid us lay in 'gainst Winter Raine, and poize
Their flouds, with an o'reflowing glasse.

Thou best of Men and Friends! we will create
A Genuine Summer in each others breast;
And spite of this cold Time and frosen Fate
Thaw us a warme seate to our rest.

Our sacred harthes shall burne eternally
As Vestall Flames; the North-wind, he
Shall strike his frost stretch'd Winges, dissolve and flye
This Etna in Epitome.

Dropping December shall come weeping in,

Bewayle th' usurping of his Raigne;

But when in show'rs of old Greeke we beginne,

Shall crie, he hath his Crowne againe !

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Night as cleare Hesper shall our Tapers whip
From the light Casements where we play,
And the darke Hagge from her black mantle strip,
And sticke there everlasting Day.

Thus richer then untempted Kings are we,
That asking nothing, nothing need:

Though Lord of all what Seas imbrace, yet he
That wants himselfe, is poore indeed.

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Richard Lovelace.

TE

ODE.

of Wit.

Ell me, O tell, what kind of thing is Wit,
Thou who Master art of it.

For the First matter loves Variety less;
Less Women love't, either in Love or Dress.
A thousand different shapes it bears,
Comely in thousand shapes appears.
Yonder we saw it plain; and here 'tis now,
Like Spirits in a Place, we know not How.

London that vents of false Ware so much store,
In no Ware deceives us more.

For men led by the Colour, and the Shape,
Like Zeuxes Birds fly to the painted Grape ;

Some things do through our Judgment pass
As through a Multiplying Glass.

And sometimes, if the Object be too far,
We take a Falling Meteor for a Star.

IO

Hence 'tis a Wit that greatest word of Fame
Grows such a common Name.

And Wits by our Creation they become,
Just so, as Tit'lar Bishops made at Rome.
'Tis not a Tale, 'tis not a Jest
Admir'd with Laughter at a feast,
Nor florid Talk which can that Title gain;
The Proofs of Wit for ever must remain.
"Tis not to force some lifeless Verses meet
With their five gowty feet.

All ev'ry where, like Mans, must be the Soul,
And Reason the Inferior Powers controul.

Such were the Numbers which could call
The Stones into the Theban wall.

Such Miracles are ceast; and now we see
No Towns or Houses rais'd by Poetrie.
Yet 'tis not to adorn, and gild each part;
That shows more Cost, then Art.

Jewels at Nose and Lips but ill appear;
Rather then all things Wit, let none be there.
Several Lights will not be seen,

If there be nothing else between.

Men doubt, because they stand so thick i'th' skie,
If those be Stars which paint the Galaxie.

'Tis not when two like words make up one noise;
Jests for Dutch Men, and English Boys.

In which who finds out Wit, the same may see
In An'grams and Acrostiques Poetrie.

Much less can that have any place

At which a Virgin hides her face,
Such Dross the Fire must purge away; 'tis just
The Author Blush, there where the Reader must.

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