ODE 5.
[An Amouret Anacreontic.]
MOst good! most fair! Or thing as rare! To call you 's lost; For all the cost Words can bestow So poorly show Upon your praise, That all the ways Sense hath, come short. Whereby Report Falls them under: That when Wonder More hath seized; Yet not pleased That it, in kind, Nothing can find, You to express. Nevertheless As by globes small This mighty ALL Is shewed, though far From life; each star A World being: So we seeing You, like as that, Only trust what Art doth us teach. And when I reach At Moral Things, And that my strings Gravely should strike; Straight some mislike Blotteth mine Ode; As, with the Load, The Steel we touch: Forced ne'er so much; Yet still removes To that it loves, Till there it stays. So to your praise I turn ever: And though never From you moving; Happy so loving.
ODE 6.
[Love's Conquest.]
