IX

Now fall'n the brittle favourite lyes and burst!
Amas'd Lucasta weepes, repents and flies
To her Alexis, vowes her selfe acurst,
If hence she dresse her selfe but in his eyes.

LUCASTA, TAKING THE WATERS

YE

AT TUNBRIDGE

I

'EE happy floods! that now must passe
The sacred conduicts of her wombe,

Smooth and transparent as your face,

When you are deafe, and windes are dumbe.

II

Be proud! and if your waters be
Foul'd with a counterfeyted teare,
Or some false sigh hath stained yee,
Haste, and be purified there.

III

And when her rosie gates y'have trac'd,
Continue yet some Orient wet,
"Till, turn'd into a gemme, y'are plac'd
Like diamonds with rubies set.

IV

Yee drops, that dew th' Arabian bowers,

Tell me, did you e're smell or view

On

any leafe of all

your flowers

Soe sweet a sent, so rich a hiew?

V

But as through th' Organs of her breath
You trickle wantonly, beware:
Ambitious Seas in their just death

As well as Lovers, must have share.

VI

And see! you boyle as well as I;

You, that to coole her did aspire,

Now troubled and neglected lye,

Nor can your selves quench your owne fire.

VII

Yet still be happy in the thought,

That in so small a time as this,

Through all the Heavens you were brought Of Vertue, Honour, Love and Blisse.

TO LUCASTA

ODE LYRICK

I

H Lucasta, why so bright?

AH

Spread with early streaked light!

If still vailed from our sight,

What is't but eternall night?

II

Ah Lucasta, why so chaste?
With that vigour, ripenes grac't,
Not to be by Man imbrac't
Makes that Royall coyne imbace't,
And this golden Orchard waste!

III

Ah Lucasta, why so great,

That thy crammed coffers sweat?

Yet not owner of a seat

May shelter you from Natures heat, your earthly joyes compleat.

And

IV

Ah Lucasta, why so good?

Blest with an unstained flood

Flowing both through soule and blood; If it be not understood,

'Tis a Diamond in mud.

Lucasta! stay! why dost thou flye?
Thou art not bright but to the eye,
Nor chaste but in the mariage-tye,
Nor great but in this treasurie,
Nor good but in that sanctitie.

VI

Harder then the Orient stone,

Like an apparition,

Or as a pale shadow gone,

Dumbe and deafe she hence is flowne.

VII

Then receive this equall dombe:
Virgins, strow no teare or bloome,
No one dig the Parian wombe;
Raise her marble heart i'th' roome,
And 'tis both her coarse and tombe.