Enter the dismal chancel of this room,

Where each pale guest stands fix'd a living tomb,
With trembling hands help to remove this earth
To its last death, and first victorious birth:
Let gums and incense fume, who are at strife
To enter th' hearse and breath in it new life;
Mingle your steps with flowers as you go,
Which as they haste to fade will speak your woe.

And when y'have plac'd your tapers on her urn, How poor a tribute 'tis to weep and mourn! That flood the channel of your eyelids fills, When you lose trifles, or what's less, your wills. If you'll be worthy of these obsequies, Be blind unto the world, and drop your eyes; Waste and consume, burn downward as this fire That's fed no more, so willingly expire; Pass through the cold and obscure narrow way, Then light your torches at the spring of day, There with her triumph in your victory, Such joy alone and such solemnity Becomes this funeral of virginity.

Or, if you faint to be so blest: oh hear!
If not to die, dare but to live like her:
Dare to live virgins till the honour'd age
Of thrice fifteen calls matrons on the stage,
Whilst not a blemish or least stain is seen
On your white robe 'twixt fifty and fifteen;

But as it in your swathing-bands was given,
Bring't in your winding-sheet unsoil'd to heav'n.
Dare to do purely, without compact good,
Or herald, by no one understood

But him, who now in thanks bows either knee,
For th' early benefit and secresy.

Dare to affect a serious holy sorrow, To which delights of palaces are narrow, And lasting as their smiles, dig you a room Where practice, the probation of your tomb, With ever-bended knees and piercing pray'r Smooth the rough pass through craggy earth to air; Flame there as lights that shipwreck'd mariners May put in safely, and secure their fears, Who adding to your joys, now owe you theirs.

Virgins, if thus you dare but courage take To follow her in life, else through this lake Of nature wade, and break her earthly bars, Y'are fix'd with her upon a throne of stars Arched with a pure heav'n chrystaline, Where round you love and joy for ever shine.

But you are dumb, as what you do lament More senseless than her very monument Which at your weakness weeps-spare that vain tear! Enough to burst the rev'rend sepulchre :

Rise and walk home; there groaning prostrate fall And celebrate your own sad funeral;

For howsoe'er you move, may hear or see

You are more dead and buried than she.

COLD as the breath of winds that blow
To silver shot descending snow,
Lucasta sate; when she did close
The world in frosty chains!

And then a frown to rubies froze
The blood boil'd in our veins:

Yet cooled not the heat her sphere
Of beauties first had kindled there.

Then mov'd, and with a sudden flame

Impatient to melt all again,

Straight from her eyes she lightning hurl'd,

And earth in ashes mourns ;

The sun his blaze denies the world,

And in her lustre burns:

Yet warmed not the hearts, her nice

Disdain had first congeal'd to ice.

E

And now her tears nor griev'd desire
Can quench this raging, pleasing fire;
Fate but one way allows; behold

Her smiles divinity!

They fann'd this heat, and thaw'd that cold,

So fram'd up a new sky.

Thus earth from flames and ice repriev'd,

Ere since hath in her sunshine liv'd.

TO A LADY THAT DESIRED ME I WOULD BEAR MY PART WITH HER IN A SONG.

MADAM A. L.

THIS is the prettiest motion:
Madam, th' alarums of a drum

That calls your lord, set to your cries,
To mine are sacred symphonies.

What, though 'tis said I have a voice;
I know 'tis but that hollow noise
Which (as it through my pipe doth speed)
Bitterns do carol through a reed;

In the same key with monkies jigs,
Or dirges of proscribed pigs,

Or the soft serenades above

In calm of night, when cats make love.

Was ever such a consort seen!
Fourscore and fourteen with fourteen?

Yet sooner they'll agree, one pair,
Than we in our spring-winter air;

They may embrace, sigh, kiss the rest:

Our breath knows nought but east and west. Thus have I heard to childrens' cries,

The fair nurse 'still such lullabies

That well all said (for what there lay)
The pleasure did the sorrow pay.

Sure there's another way to save Your fancy, madam, that's to have ('Tis but petitioning kind fate) The organs sent to Billingsgate; Where they to that soft murmʼring quire Shall reach you all you can admire! Or do but hear how love-bang Kate, In pantry dark, for freage of mate, With edge of steel the square wood shapes, And Dido to it chaunts or scrapes.

The merry Phaeton o'th' car,

You'll vow makes a melodious jar;

Sweeter and sweeter whistleth he

To unanointed axletree;

Such swift notes he and's wheels do run;
For me, I yield him Phoebus' son.

Say, fair commandress, can it be You should ordain a mutiny?