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 :
Safe from the ruins of our fate

By virtue's great preservative.

And though we see

Beauty enough to warm each heart,
Yet you, by a chaste chemic art,
Calcine frail love to piety.

THE PERFECTION OF LOVE.
You who are earth and can not rise
Above your sense,

Boasting the envied wealth which lies
Bright in your Mistress' lips or eyes,
Betray a pitied eloquence.

That which doth join our souls so light
And quick doth move

That, like the eagle in his flight,
It doth transcend all human sight,
Lost in the element of love.

You poets reach not this who sing
The praise of dust,

But kneaded, when by theft you bring
The rose and lily from the Spring

To adorn the wrinkled face of Lust.

When we speak love, nor art nor wit
We gloss upon :

Our souls engender, and beget
Ideas,-which you counterfeit
In your dull propagation.

While Time seven ages shall disperse

We'll talk of love;

And when our tongues hold no commerce
Our thoughts shall mutually converse,
And yet the blood no rebel prove.

And though we be of several kind,
Fit for offence,

Yet are we so by love refined

From impure dross, we are all mind:
Death could not more have conquer'd sense.

How suddenly those flames expire
Which scorch our clay!
Prometheus-like when we steal fire
From heaven, 'tis endless and entire ;
It may know age, but not decay.

FINE YOUNG FOLLY.

Fine young Folly! though you were
That fair beauty I did swear,

Yet you ne'er could reach my heart :
For we courtiers learn at school
Only with your sex to fool;

You're not worth the serious part.

When I sigh and kiss your hand,
Cross my arms and wondering stand,
Holding parley with your eye;
Then dilate on my desires,

Swear the sun ne'er shot such fires :
All is but a handsome lie.

When I eye your curl or lace,

Gentle Soul! you think your face

Straight some murder doth commit;

And your virtue doth begin
To grow scrupulous of my sin,

When I talk to show my wit.

Therefore, Madam! wear no cloud,
Nor to check my love grow proud :
For in sooth I much do doubt
'Tis the powder in your hair,
Not your breath, perfumes the air ;
And your clothes that set you out.

Yet, though truth has this confess'd,
And I vow I love in jest,

When I next begin to court
And protest an amorous flame
You will swear I earnest am:-
Bedlam! this is pretty sport.

CASTARA.

Like the violet, which alone
Prospers in some happy shade,
My Castara lives unknown,
To no looser eye betray'd :
For she's to herself untrue
Who delights i' the public view.

Such is her beauty as no arts

Have enrich'd with borrow'd grace ;
Her high birth no pride imparts,
For she blushes in her place.
Folly boasts a glorious blood :
She is noblest being good.

Cautious, she knew never yet
What a wanton courtship meant;
Nor speaks loud to boast her wit,
In her silence eloquent.

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 nor acts nor understands.
Women's feet run still astray
If to ill they know the way.

She sails by that rock, the Court,
Where oft Virtue splits her mast;
And retiredness thinks the port
Where her fame may anchor cast.
Virtue safely can not sit
Where Vice is enthroned for Wit.

She holds that day's pleasure best
Where sin waits not on delight;
Without masque, or ball, or feast,
Sweetly spends a winter's night,
O'er that darkness whence is thrust
Prayer and sleep, if governs lust.

She her throne makes Reason climb,
While wild passions captive lie;
And each article of time

Her pure thoughts to heaven fly.
All her vows religious be,
And her love she vows to me.

SIR WILLIAM DAVENANT.

1605-6-1668.

DAY-BREAK.

The lark now leaves his watery nest
And, climbing, shakes his dewy wings :
He takes this window for the East,

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 ;
The ploughman from the sun his season takes
But still the lover wonders what they are

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
Shall now my joyful temples bind :
No monarch but would give his crown
His arms might do what this has done!

It was my heaven's extremest sphere,
The pale which held that lovely deer :
My joy, my grief, my hope, my love,
Did all within this circle move.

A narrow compass, and yet there
Dwelt all that's good and all that's fair :
Give me but what this ribbon bound,
Take all the rest the sun goes round!

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,
That hadst thou sprung

In deserts where no men abide

Thou must have uncommended died.