Clouds are sent up on wings of thyme, Amber, pomgranates, jessamine, And through our earthern conduits sore Higher than altars fum'd before.
So drench'd we our oppressing cares, And chok'd the wide jaws of our fears, Whilst ravish'd thus we did devise If this were not a Paradise
In all, except these harmless sins; Behold! flew in two cherubins
Clear as the sky from whence they came, And brighter than the sacred flame: The boy adorn'd with modesty,
Yet armed so with majesty, That if the thund'rer again
His eagle sends she stoops in vain; Besides his innocence he took
A sword and casquet, and did look Like Love in arms; he wrote but five, Yet spake eighteen, each grace did strive And twenty cupids thronged forth, Who first should show his prettier worth.
But oh, the nymph! did you e'er know Carnation mingled with snow?
Or have you seen the lightning shroud, And straight break through th' opposing cloud? So ran her blood such was its hue;
So through her veil her bright hair flew,
And yet its glory did appear But thin, because her eyes were near.
Blooming boy, and blossoming maid, May your fair sprigs be ne'er betray'd To eating worm, or fouler storm; No serpent lurk to do them harm; No sharp frost cut, no north-wind tear, The verdure of that fragrant hair;
But may the sun and gentle weather, When you are both grown ripe together, Load you with fruit, such as your father From you with all the joys doth gather; And may you when one branch is dead Graft such another in its stead,
Lasting thus ever in your prime
Till th' scythe is snatch'd away from Time.
AGAINST THE LOVE OF GREAT ONES.
UNHAPPY youth, betray'd by fate, To such a love hath sainted hate, And damned those celestial bonds Are only knit with equal hands; The love of great ones! 'Tis a love Gods are incapable to prove;
For where there is a joy uneven There never, never can be heav'n: "Tis such a love as is not sent To fiends as yet for punishment; Ixion willingly doth feel
The gyre of his eternal wheel, Nor would he now exchange his pain For clouds and goddesses again.
Wouldst thou with tempests lie? then bow To the rougher furrows of her brow; Or make a thunder-bolt thy choice? Then catch at her more fatal voice; Or 'gender with the lightning? try The subtler flashes of her eye : Poor Semele well knew the same, Who both embrac'd her god and flame;
And not alone in soul did buru But in this love did ashes turn.
How ill doth majesty enjoy The bow and gaiety of the boy, As if the purple-robe should sit And sentence give i'th' chair of wit.
Say, ever dying wretch, to whom Each answer is a certain doom, What is it that you would possess, The Countess, or the naked Bess?
If you mean her, the very her Abstracted from her character; Unhappy boy! you may as soon With fawning wanton with the moon, Or with an amorous complaint Get prostitute your very saint; Not that we are not mortal, or Fly Venus' altars, or abhor
The self-same knack for which you pine; But we (defend us!) are divine Female, but madam-born, and come From a right honourable womb: Shall we then mingle with the base, And bring a silver-tinsel race? Whilst th' issue noble will not pass, The gold allay'd, almost half brass, And th' blood in each vein doth appear: Part thick Boorein, part Lady Clear: Like to the sordid insects sprung From father sun, and mother dung; Yet lose we not the hold we have, But faster grasp the trembling slave; Play at balloon with's heart, and wind The strings like skeins, steal into his mind Ten thousand hells, and feigned joys
Far worse than they, whilst like whipp'd boys, After this scourge he's hush with toys.
This heard, sir, play still in her eyes, And be a dying, lives, like flies
Caught by their angle-legs, and whom The torch laughs piecemeal to consume.
PAYING HER OBSEQUIES TO THE CHASTE MEMORY OF MY DEAREST COUSIN
MRS. BOWES BARNE.
SEE! what an undisturbed tear She weeps for her last sleep; But viewing her straight wak'd a star, She weeps that she did weep.
Grief ne'er before did tyrannize On th' honour of that brow, And at the wheels of her brave eyes Was captive led till now.
Thus for a saint's apostacy The unimagin'd woes, And sorrows of the hierarchy, None but an angel knows.
Thus for lost souls recovery, The clapping of all wings, And triumphs of this victory, None but an angel sings.
« PreviousContinue » |