TO I. MORGAN OF WHITEHALL, ESQ., UPON HIS SUDDEN JOURNEY AND SUCCEEDING MARRIAGE.
So from our cold, rude world, which all things tires,
To his warm Indies the bright sun retires.
Where, in those provinces of gold and spice,
Perfumes his progress, pleasures fill his eyes,
Which, so refresh'd, in their return convey
Fire into rubies, into crystals, day;
And prove, that light in kinder climates can
Work more on senseless stones, than here on man.
But you, like one ordain'd to shine, take in
Both light and heat, can love and wisdom spin
Into one thread, and with that firmly tie
The same bright blessings on posterity:
Which so entail'd, like jewels of the crown,
Shall, with your name, descend still to your own.
When I am dead, and malice or neglect
The worst they can upon my dust reflect;
—For poets yet have left no names, but such
As men have envied or despis'd too much—
You above both—and what state more excels,
Since a just fame like health, nor wants, nor swells?—
To after ages shall remain entire,
And shine still spotless, like your planet's fire.
No single lustre neither; the access
Of your fair love will yours adorn and bless;
Till, from that bright conjunction, men may view
A constellation circling her and you.
So two sweet rose-buds from their virgin-beds
First peep and blush, then kiss and couple heads,
Till yearly blessings so increase their store,
Those two can number two-and-twenty more,
And the fair bank—by Heav'n's free bounty crown'd—
With choice of sweets and beauties doth abound,
Till Time, which families, like flowers, far spreads,
Gives them for garlands to the best of heads.
Then late posterity—if chance, or some
Weak echo, almost quite expir'd and dumb,
Shall tell them who the poet was, and how
He liv'd and lov'd thee too, which thou dost know—
Straight to my grave will flowers and spices bring,
With lights and hymns, and for an offering
There vow this truth, that love—which in old times
Was censur'd blind, and will contract worse crimes
If hearts mend not—did for thy sake in me
Find both his eyes, and all foretell and see.
FIDA; OR, THE COUNTRY BEAUTY. TO LYSIMACHUS.
Now I have seen her; and by Cupid
The young Medusa made me stupid!
A face, that hath no lovers slain,
Wants forces, and is near disdain.
For every fop will freely peep
At majesty that is asleep.
But she—fair tyrant!—hates to be
Gaz'd on with such impunity.
Whose prudent rigour bravely bears
And scorns the trick of whining tears,
Or sighs, those false alarms of grief,
Which kill not, but afford relief.
Nor is it thy hard fate to be
Alone in this calamity,
Since I who came but to be gone,
Am plagu'd for merely looking on.
Mark from her forehead to her foot
What charming sweets are there to do't.
A head adorn'd with all those glories
That wit hath shadow'd in quaint stories,
Or pencil with rich colours drew
In imitation of the true.
Her hair, laid out in curious sets
And twists, doth show like silken nets,
Where—since he play'd at hit or miss—
The god of Love her pris'ner is,
And fluttering with his skittish wings
Puts all her locks in curls and rings.
Like twinkling stars her eyes invite
All gazers to so sweet a light,
But then two archèd clouds of brown
Stand o'er, and guard them with a frown.
Beneath these rays of her bright eyes,
Beauty's rich bed of blushes lies.
Blushes which lightning-like come on,
Yet stay not to be gaz'd upon;
But leave the lilies of her skin
As fair as ever, and run in,
Like swift salutes—which dull paint scorn—
'Twixt a white noon and crimson morn.
What coral can her lips resemble?
For hers are warm, swell, melt, and tremble:
And if you dare contend for red,
This is alive, the other dead.
Her equal teeth—above, below—
All of a size and smoothness grow.
Where under close restraint and awe
—Which is the maiden tyrant law—
Like a cag'd, sullen linnet, dwells
Her tongue, the key to potent spells.
Her skin, like heav'n when calm and bright,
Shows a rich azure under white,
With touch more soft than heart supposes,
And breath as sweet as new-blown roses.
Betwixt this headland and the main,
Which is a rich and flow'ry plain,
Lies her fair neck, so fine and slender,
That gently how you please 'twill bend her.
This leads you to her heart, which ta'en,
Pants under sheets of whitest lawn,
And at the first seems much distress'd,
But, nobly treated, lies at rest.
Here, like two balls of new fall'n snow,
Her breasts, Love's native pillows, grow;
And out of each a rose-bud peeps,
Which infant Beauty sucking sleeps.
Say now, my Stoic, that mak'st sour faces
At all the beauties and the graces,
That criest, unclean! though known thyself
To ev'ry coarse and dirty shelf:
Couldst thou but see a piece like this,
A piece so full of sweets and bliss,
In shape so rare, in soul so rich,
Wouldst thou not swear she is a witch?