IF thus we needs must go; What shall our one Heart do, This One made of our Two?
Madam, two Hearts we brake; And from them both did take The best, one Heart to make.
Half this is of your Heart, Mine in the other part; Joined by an equal Art.
Were it cemented, or sewn; By shreds or pieces known, We might each find our own.
But 'tis dissolved and fixed; And with such cunning mixed, No diff'rence that betwixt.
But how shall we agree, By whom it kept shall be: Whether by you or me?
It cannot two breasts fill; One must be heartless still, Until the other will.
It came to me to-day: When I willed it to say, With Whether would it stay?
It told me, "In your breast, Where it might hope to rest: For if it were my guest,
"For certainty, it knew That I would still anew Be sending it to you!"
Never, I think, had two Such work, so much, to do: A Unity to woo!
Yours was so cold and chaste: Whilst mine with zeal did waste; Like Fire with Water placed.
How did my Heart intreat! How pant! How did it beat, Till it could give yours heat!
Till to that temper brought, Through our perfection wrought, That blessing either's thought.
In such a height it lies From this base World's dull eyes; That Heaven it not envies.
All that this Earth can show, Our Heart shall not once know! For it's too vile and low.
The Sacrifice to Apollo.
PRiests of Apollo, sacred be the room For this learned meeting! Let no barbarous groom, How brave soe'er he be, Attempt to enter! But of the Muses free, None here may venture! This for the Delphian Prophets is prepared: The profane Vulgar are from hence debarred!
And since the Feast so happily begins; Call up those fair Nine, with their violins! They are begot by Jove. Then let us place them Where no clown in may shove, That may disgrace them: But let them near to young Apollo sit; So shall his foot-pace overflow with wit.
Where be the Graces? Where be those fair Three? In any hand, they may not absent be! They to the Gods are dear: And they can humbly Teach us, ourselves to bear, And do things comely. They, and the Muses, rise both from one stem: They grace the Muses; and the Muses, them.
Bring forth your flagons, filled with sparkling wine (Whereon swollen Bacchus, crownèd with a vine, Is graven); and fill out! It well bestowing To every man about, In goblets flowing! Let not a man drink, but in draughts profound! To our god Phœbus, let the Health go round!
Let your Jests fly at large; yet therewithal See they be Salt, but yet not mixed with Gall! Not tending to disgrace: But fairly given, Becoming well the place, Modest and even, That they, with tickling pleasure, may provoke Laughter in him on whom the Jest is broke.
Or if the deeds of Heroes ye rehearse: Let them be sung in so well-ordered Verse, That each word have its weight, Yet run with pleasure! Holding one stately height In so brave measure That they may make the stiffest storm seem weak; And damp Jove's thunder, when it loud'st doth speak.
And if ye list to exercise your vein, Or in the Sock, or in the Buskined strain; Let Art and Nature go One with the other! Yet so, that Art may show Nature her mother: The thick-brained audience lively to awake, Till with shrill claps the Theatre do shake.
Sing Hymns to Bacchus then, with hands upreared! Offer to Jove, who most is to be feared! From him the Muse we have. From him proceedeth More than we dare to crave. 'Tis he that feedeth Them, whom the World would starve. Then let the lyre Sound! whilst his altars endless flames expire.
To his Rival.
