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Thy beauties therefore


will take,
If thou shouldst any bargain make;
To give all, will befit thee well;.
But not at under-rates to sell.

Bestow thy beauty then on me,
Freely, as nature gave't to thee;
"Tis an exploded popish thought
To think that heaven may be bought.
Prayers, hymns, and praises, are the way,
And those my thankful Muse shall pay :
Thy body, in my verse enshrin'd,

grow immortal as thy mind.

I'll fix thy title next in fame.
To Sacharissa's well-sung name.
So faithfully will I declare
What all thy wondrous beauties are,
That when, at the last great assize,
All women shall together rise,
Men straight shall cast their eyes on thee,
And know at first that thou art she.

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be absent here, I needs must say The trees as beauteous are, and flowers as gay,

As ever they were wont to be;
Nay, the birds' rural music too
Is as melodious and free,

As if they sung to pleasure you:
I saw a rose-bud

this morn-

-I'll swear
The blushing morning open'd not more fair.

How could it be so fair, and you away

? How could the trees be beauteous, flowers so gay?

Could they remember but last year,
How you did them, they you, delight,
The sprouting leaves which saw you here,

And call’d their fellows to the sight,
Would, looking round for the same sight in vain,
Creep back into their silent barks again.
Where'er you walk'd, trees were as reverent made,
As when of old Gods dwelt in


Is't possible they should not know
What loss of honour they sustain,
That thus they smile and flourish now,

And still their former pride retain ?
Dull creatures ! 'tis not without cause that she,
Who fled the God of Wit, was made a tree.
In ancient times, sure, they much wiser were,
When they rejoiced the Thracian verse to hear;

In vain did Nature bid them stay,
When Orpheus had his song begun-
They call'd their wondering roots away,

And bade them silent to him run.
How would those learned trees have follow'd you !
You would have drawn them and their poet too.
But who can blame them now? for, since you're
They're here the only fair, and shine alone; [gone,

You did their natural rights invade ;


did walk or sit,
The thickest boughs could make no shade,

Although the sun had granted it:
The fairest flowers could please no more, near you,
Than painted flowers, set next to them, could do.
Whene'er then you come hither, that shall bo
The time, which this to others is, to me.

The little joys which here are now,
The name of punishments do bear;
When by their sight they let us know

How we depriv'd of greater are:

the best of seasons with you bring ; This is for beasts, and that for men, the Spring.


Whilst what I write I do not see,

I dare thus, even to you, write poetry.
Ah, foolish Muse! which dost so high aspire,

And know'st her judgment well,

How much it does thy power excel,
Yet darest be read by, thy just doom, the fire.

Alas! thou think'st thyself secure,

Because thy form is innocent and pure : Like hypocrites, which seem unspotted here;

But, when they sadly come to die,

And the last fire their truth must try, Scrawld o'er like thee, and blotted, they appear.

Go then, but reverently go,

And, since thou needs must sin, confess it too: Confess 't, and with humility clothe thy shame;

For thou, who else must burned be

An heretic, if she pardon thee,
Mayst like a martyr then enjoy the flame.

But, if her wisdom grow severe,
And suffer not her goodness to be there;


WRITTEN IN JUICE OF LEMON. If her large mercies cruelly' it restrain;

Be not discouraged, but require

A more gentle ordeal fire,
And bid her by Love's flames read it again.

Strange power of heat! thou yet dost show

Like winter-earth, naked or cloth'd with snow : But as, the quickening sun approaching near,

The plants arise up by degrees ;

A sudden paint adorns the trees,
And all kind Nature's characters appear.

So, nothing yet in thee is seen;

But, when a genial heat warms thee within, A new-born wood of various lines there grows;

Here buds an A, and there a B,

Here sprouts a V, and there a T,
And all the flourishing letters stand in rows.

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Still, silly paper! thou wilt think

That all this might as well be writ with ink : Oh, no; there's sense in this, and mystery

Thou now mayst change thy author's name,

And to her hand lay noble claim; For, as she reads, she makes, the words in thee.

Yet-if thine own unworthiness

Will still that thou art' mine, not hers confessConsume thyself with fire before her eyes,

And so her grace or pity move:

The Gods, though beasts they do not love, Yet like them when they're burnt in sacrifice.



Five years ago (says Story) I loved you,
For which you call me most inconstant now;
Pardon me, Madam! you

mistake the man,
For I am not the same that I was then ;
No flesh is now the same 'twas then in me;
And that my mind is changed, yourself may see.
The same thoughts to retain still, and intents,
Were more inconstant far; for accidents
Must of all things most strangely inconstant prove,
If from one subject they to’ another move;
My members then the father-members were
From whence these take their birth which now are
If then this body love what the other did, [here.
'Twere incest; which by Nature is forbid.
You might as well this day inconstant name,
Because the weather is not still the same
That it was yesterday—or blame the year,
'Cause the spring flowers, and autumn fruit, does

bear. The world's a scene of changes; and to be Constant, in Nature were inconstancy ; For 'twere to break the laws herself has made : Our substances themselves do feet and fade; The most fix'd being still does move and fly, Swift as the wings of time 'tis measured by. To’imagine then that Love should never cease (Love, which is but the ornament of these) Were quite as senseless, as to wonder why Beauty and colour stay not when we die,

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