Now fall'n the brittle favourite lies, and burst!
Amaz'd Lucasta weeps, repents, and flies
To her Alexis, vows herself accurs'd
If hence she dress herself, but in his eyes.

Lucasta,

TAKING THE WATERS AT TUNBRIDGE.

ODE.

YE happy floods! that now must pass
The sacred conduits of her womb,
Smooth, and transparent as your face,
When you are deaf, and winds are dumb.

Be proud! and if your waters be
Foul'd with a counterfeited tear,
Or some false sigh hath stained ye,
Haste, and be purified there.

And when her rosy gates y' have trac'd,
Continue yet some orient wet,

Till turn'd into a gem, y' are plac'd
Like diamonds with rubies set.

Ye drops that dew th' Arabian bowers,
Tell me did you e'er smell or view,

On any leaf of all your flowers,
So sweet a scent, so rich a hue?

But as through th' organs of her breath,
You trickle wantonly, beware;
Ambitious seas in their just death

As well as lovers must have share.

And see! you boil as well as I,
You that to cool her did aspire,

Now troubled, and neglected lie,

Nor can yourselves quench your own fire.

Yet still be happy in the thought,

That in so small a time as this,

Through all the heavens you were brought Of virtue, honour, love, and bliss.

ao Lucasta

ODE LYRICK.

AH, Lucasta, why so bright!
Spread with early streaked light!
If still veiled from our sight,
What is't but eternal night?

Ah, Lucasta, why so chaste !
With that vigour, ripeness grac❜d!
Not to be by man embrac'd
Makes that royal coin embas'd,

And this golden orchard waste.

Ah, Lucasta, why so great!
That thy crammed coffers sweat;
Yet not owner of a seat

May shelter you from nature's heat,
And your earthly joys complete.

Ah, Lucasta, why so good!
Bless'd with an unstained flood
Flowing both through soul and blood;
If it be not understood,

'Tis a diamond in mud.

Lucasta! stay! why dost thou fly?
Thou art not bright, but to the eye,
Nor chaste, but in the marriage-tie,
Nor great, but in this treasury,
Nor good, but in that sanctity.

Harder than the orient stone,

Like an apparition,

Or as a pale shadow gone

Dumb and deaf she hence is flown.

Then receive this equal doom,
Virgins strew no tear or bloom,
No one dig the Parian womb;
Raise her marble heart i'th' room,
And 'tis both her corse and tomb.

TO MY WORTHY FRIEND

MR. PETER LILLY:

ON THAT EXCELLENT PICTURE OF HIS MAJESTY, AND THE DUKE OF YORK, DRAWN BY HIM AT HAMPTON-COURT.

SEE! what a clouded majesty! and eyes

Whose glory through their mist doth brighter rise!
See! what an humble bravery doth shine,
And grief triumphant breaking through each line
How it commands the face! so sweet a scorn
Never did happy misery adorn!

So sacred a contempt! that others show
To this, (o'th' height of all the wheel) below;
That mightiest monarchs by this shaded book
May copy out their proudest, richest look.

Whilst the true eaglet this quick lustre spies, And by his son's enlightens his own eyes; He cares his cares, his burden feels, then straight Joys that so lightly he can bear such weight; Whilst either either's passion doth borrow, And both do grieve the same victorious sorrow.

These, my best Lilly, with so bold a spirit
And soft a grace, as if thou didst inherit
For that time all their greatness, and didst draw
With those brave eyes your royal sitters saw.

Not as of old, when a rough hand did speak A strong aspect, and a fair face, a weak; When only a black beard cried villain, and By hieroglyphics we could understand; When chrystal typified in a white spot, And the bright ruby was but one red blot; Thou dost the things orientally the same, Not only paint'st its colour, but its flame: Thou sorrow canst design without a tear, And with the man his very hope or fear; So that th' amazed world shall henceforth find None but my Lilly ever drew a mind.

Elinda's Glove.

SONNET.

THOU Snowy farm with thy five tenements!
Tell thy white mistress here was one
That call'd to pay his daily rents:

But she a gathering flow'rs and hearts is gone,
And thou left void to rude possession.

But grieve not, pretty Ermin cabinet,
Thy alabaster lady will come home;
If not, what tenant can there fit

The slender turnings of thy narrow room,
But must ejected be by his own doom?