Where he beholds new fights, divinely fair,
And could almost wish for his pencil there;
Did he not gladly fee how all things shine,
Wondrously painted in the Mind Divine,
Whilft he, for ever ravish'd with the show,
Scorns his own art, which we admire below.
Only his beauteous lady ftill he loves
(The love of heavenly objects Heaven improves);
He fees bright angels in pure beams appear,
And thinks on her he left fo like them here.
And you, fair widow! who stay here alive,
Since he fo much rejoices, cease to grieve:
Your joys and griefs were wont the fame to be;
Begin not now, blest pair! to disagree.
No wonder death mov'd not his generous mind;
You, and a new-born You, he left behind:
Ev'n Fate exprefs'd his love to his dear wife,
And let him end your picture with his life.
OW wretched does Prometheus' ftate
H While he his fecond mifery fuffers here!
Draw him no more; left, as he tortur'd stands,
He blame great Jove's less than the painter's hands.
It would the Vulture's cruelty outgo,
If once again his liver thus fhould grow.
Pity him, Jove! and his bold theft allow;
The flames he once ftole from thee grant him now!
ERE's to thee, Dick; this whining love despise;
H Pledge me, my friend; and drink till thou be'ft
It fparkles brighter far than fhe:
'Tis pure and right, without deceit;
And fuch no woman ere will be:
No; they are all sophisticate.
With all thy fervile pains what canft thou win,
But an ill-favour'd and uncleanly fin?
A thing fo vile, and fo fhort-liv'd,
That Venus' joys, as well as she,
With reason may be said to be
From the neglected foam deriv'd.
Whom would that painted toy a beauty move;
Whom would it e'er perfuade to court and love;
Could he a woman's heart have seen
(But, oh! no light does thither come),
And view'd her perfectly within,
When he lay shut up in her womb?
Follies they have so numberless in store,
That only he who loves them can have more.
Neither their fighs nor tears are true;
Those idly blow, thefe idly fall,
Nothing like to ours at all:
But fighs and tears have fexes too.
Here's to thee again; thy fenfeless forrows drown;
Let the glass walk, till all things too go round!
Again, till these two lights be four;
No error here can dangerous prove:
Thy paffion, man, deceiv'd thee more;
None double fee like men in love.
HEN chance or cruel business parts us two,
What do our fouls, I wonder, do ?
Whilst fleep does our dull bodies tie,
Methinks at home they should not stay,
Content with dreams, but boldly fly
Abroad, and meet each other half the way.
Sure they do meet, enjoy each other there,
And mix, I know not how nor where !
Their friendly lights together twine,
Though we perceive 't not to be fo!
Like loving stars, which oft combine,
Yet not themselves their own conjunctions know.
'Twere an ill world, I'll fwear, for every friend,
If distance could their union end:
But Love itfelf does far advance
Above the power of time and space;
It fcorns fuch outward circumstance,
His time's for ever, every where his place.
I'm there with thee, yet here with me thou art,
Lodg'd in each other's heart:
Miracles cease not yet in love.
When he his mighty power will try,
Abfence itself does bounteous prove,
And ftrangely ev'n our prefence multiply.
Pure is the flame of Friendship, and divine,
Like that which in Heaven's fun does fhine:
He in the upper air and sky
Does no effects of heat beftow;
But, as his beams the farther fly,
He begets warmth, life, beauty, here below.
Friendship is lefs apparent when too nigh,
Like objects if they touch the eye.
Lefs meritorious then is love;
For when we friends together fee
So much, fo much both one do prove,
That their love then feems but felf-love to be.
Each day think on me, and each day I fhall
For thee make hours canonical.
By every wind that comes this way,
Send me, at leaft, a figh or two;
Such and fo many I'll repay,
As fhall themfelves make winds to get to you.
A thousand pretty ways we 'll think upon,
To mock our feparation.
Alas! ten thousand will not do:
My heart will thus no longer ftay;
No longer 'twill be kept from you,
But knocks against the breaft to get away.
And, when no art affords me help or ease,
I seek with verse my griefs t' appease;
Juft as a bird, that flies about
And beats itself against the cage,
Finding at last no passage out,
It fits and fings, and fo o'ercomes its rage.
TO THE BISHOP OF LINCOLN,
UPON HIS ENLARGEMENT OUT OF THE TOWER.
ARDON, my lord, that I am come fo late
T'express my joy for your return of fate!
So, when injurious Chance did you deprive
Of liberty, at first I could not grieve;
My thoughts awhile, like you, imprison'd lay;
Great joys, as well as forrows, make a stay;
They hinder one another in the crowd,
And none are heard, whilst all would speak aloud.
Should every man's officious gladness haste,
And be afraid to fhew itself the last,
The throng of gratulations now would be
Another lofs to you of liberty.
When of your freedom men the news did hear,
Where it was wifh'd-for, that is every where,
"Twas like the speech which from your lips does fall;
As foon as it was heard, it ravish'd all.
So eloquent Tully did from exile come;
Thus long'd-for he return'd, and cherish'd Rome;
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