But, Madam! these Are thoughts to cure sick human pride; And medicines are in vain applied To bodies far 'bove all disease. For you so live As the Angels, in one perfect state : By virtue's great preservative. And though we see Beauty enough to warm each heart, THE PERFECTION OF LOVE. Boasting the envied wealth which lies That which doth join our souls so light That, like the eagle in his flight, You poets reach not this who sing But kneaded, when by theft you bring To adorn the wrinkled face of Lust. When we speak love, nor art nor wit Our souls engender, and beget While Time seven ages shall disperse We'll talk of love; And when our tongues hold no commerce And though we be of several kind, Yet are we so by love refined From impure dross, we are all mind: How suddenly those flames expire FINE YOUNG FOLLY. Fine young Folly! though you were Yet you ne'er could reach my heart : You're not worth the serious part. When I sigh and kiss your hand, Swear the sun ne'er shot such fires : When I eye your curl or lace, Gentle Soul! you think your face Straight some murder doth commit; And your virtue doth begin When I talk to show my wit. Therefore, Madam! wear no cloud, Yet, though truth has this confess'd, When I next begin to court CASTARA. Like the violet, which alone Such is her beauty as no arts Have enrich'd with borrow'd grace ; Cautious, she knew never yet Of herself survey she takes, But 'tween men no difference makes. She obeys with speedy will Her grave parents' wise commands; And so innocent, that ill She sails by that rock, the Court, She holds that day's pleasure best She her throne makes Reason climb, Her pure thoughts to heaven fly. SIR WILLIAM DAVENANT. 1605-6-1668. DAY-BREAK. The lark now leaves his watery nest And to implore your light he sings. Awake! awake! the Morn will never rise Till she can dress her beauty at your eyes. The merchant bows unto the seaman's star ; Who look for day before his Mistress wakes. Awake! awake! break through your veils of lawn ; Then draw your curtains, and begin the dawn! EDMUND WALLER. 1605-1687. ON A GIRDLE. That which her slender waist confined It was my heaven's extremest sphere, A narrow compass, and yet there THE ROSE. Go, lovely Rose ! Tell her that wastes her time and me That now she knows, When I resemble her to thee, How sweet and fair she seems to be! Tell her, that's young And shuns to have her graces spied, In deserts where no men abide Thou must have uncommended died. |