A fragrant bank of strawberries,
Diaper'd with violets' eyes,
Was table, table-cloth, and fare;
No palace to the clouds did swell,
Each humble princess then did dwell
In the piazza of her hair.
Both broken faith, and th' cause of it,
All damning gold was damn'd to th' pit;
Their troth, seal'd with a clasp and kiss,
Lasted until that extreme day,
In which they smil'd their souls away,
And in each other breath'd new bliss.
Because no fault, there was no tear;
No groan did grate the granting ear;
No false foul breath their del'cate smell:
No serpent kiss poison'd the taste,
Each touch was naturally chaste,
And their mere sense a miracle.
Naked as their own innocence,
And unembroider'd from offence,
They went, above poor riches, gay;
On softer than the cygnet's down,
In beds they tumbled off their own;
For each within the other lay.
Thus did they live: thus did they love,
Repeating only joys above;
And angels were, but with clothes on,
Which they would put off cheerfully,
To bathe them in the galaxy,
Then gird them with the heavenly zone.
Now, Chloris! miserably crave,
The offer'd bliss you would not have,
Which evermore I must deny;
Whilst ravish'd with these noble dreams,
And crowned with mine own soft beams,
Enjoying of myself I lie.
THAT ASKED AN OLD SHIRT.
AND why an honour'd ragged shirt, that shows Like tatter'd ensigns, all its body's blows? Should it be swathed in a vest so dire,
It were enough to set the child on fire; Dishevel'd queen should strip them of their hair,
And in it mantle the new rising heir:
Nor do I know ought worth to wrap it in,
Except my parchment upper-coat of skin:
And then expect no end of its chaste tears,
That first was roll'd in down, now furs of bears.
But since to ladies 't hath a custom been
Linen to send, that travail and lie in;
To the nine sempstresses, my former friends,
I sued, but they had nought but shreds and ends.
At last, the jolli'st of the three times three,
Rent th' apron from her smock, and gave it me;
"Twas soft and gentle, subt'ly spun, no doubt;
Pardon my boldness, madam; here's the clout.
IN mine own monument I lie,
And in myself am buried;
Sure the quick lightning of her eye
Melted my soul i'th' scabberd, dead;
And now like some pale ghost
And with another's spirit talk.
Nor can her beams a heat convey
That may my frozen bosom warm,
Unless her smiles have pow'r, as they
That a cross charm can countercharm;
But this is such a pleasing pain,
I'm loth to be alive again.
I DID believe I was in heav'n
When first the heav'n herself was giv'n,
That in my heart her beams did pass,
As some the sun keep in a glass;
So that her beauties thorough me
Did hurt my rival enemy.
But fate, alas! decreed it so,
That I was engine to my woe;
For as a corner'd crystal spot
My heart diaphanous was not,
But solid stuff, where her eye flings
Quick fire upon the catching strings:
Yet as at triumphs in the night,
You see the prince's arms in light;
So when I once was set on flame,
I burnt all o'er the letters of her name.
You are deceiv'd; I sooner may, dull fair,
Seat a dark Moor in Cassiopea's chair,
Or on the glow-worms useless light
Bestow the watching flames of night;
Or give the rose's breath
E'er the bright hue
Of verse to you;
It is just heaven on beauty stamps a fame,
And we, alas! its triumphs but proclaim.
What chains but are too light for me, should I
Say that Lucasta in strange arms could lie;
Or, that Castara were impure,
Or Sacharisa's faith unsure;
That Chloris love as hair,
Embrac'd each en'my's air:
That all their good
Ran in their blood;
'Tis the same wrong th' unworthy to enthrone, As from her proper sphere t' have virtue thrown.
That strange force on the ignoble hath renown,
As aurum fulminans, it blows vice down;
"Twere better (heavy one) to crawl
Forgot, than raised trod on, fall:
All your defections now
Are not writ on your brow.
Odes to faults give
A shame, must live.
When a fat mist we view, we coughing run;
But that once meteor drawn, all cry, undone,
How bright the fair Paulina did appear,
When hid in jewels she did seem a star;
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