Oh! could you view the melody
Of every grace,
And music of her face,
You'd drop a tear;
Seeing more harmony
In her bright eye,
Than now you hear.
To Lucasta on Going to the Wars.
I could not love thee, dear, so much,
Loved I not honor more.
To Althea from Prison.
Stone walls do not a prison make,
Nor iron barres a cage;
Mindes innocent, and quiet, take
That for an hermitage.