When we would still preserve them new
And fresh as on the bush they grew.
With such a grace you entertain
And look with such contempt on pain,
That languishing you conquer more,
And wound us deeper than before.
So lightnings which in storms appear
Scorch more than when the skies are clear.
And as pale sickness does invade
Your frailer part, the breaches made
In that fair lodging, still more clear
Make the bright guest, your soul, appear.
So nymphs o'er pathless mountains borne,
Their light robes by the brambles torn,
From their fair limbs, exposing new
And unknown beauties to the view
Of following gods, increase their flame,
And haste to catch the flying game.
DEATH OF MY LADY RICH.
MAY those already cursed Essexian plains,
Where hasty death and pining sickness reigns,
Prove all a desert! and none there make stay,
But savage beasts, or men as wild as they!
There the fair light which all our island graced,
Like Hero's taper in the window placed,
Such fate from the malignant air did find,
As that exposed to the boisterous wind.
Ah, cruel Heaven! to snatch so soon away Her for whose life, had we had time to pray,
With thousand vows and tears we should have
That sad decree's suspension to have wrought.
But we, alas! no whisper of her pain
Heard, till 'twas sin to wish her here again.
That horrid word, at once, like lightning spread,
Strook all our ears,- The Lady Rich is dead!'
Heart-rending news! and dreadful to those few
Who her resemble, and her steps pursue;
That Death should licence have to rage among The fair, the wise, the virtuous, and the young!
The Paphian Queen' from that fierce battle With gored hand and veil so rudely torn, [borne, Like terror did among the' immortals breed, Taught by her wound that goddesses may bleed.
All stand amazed! but beyond the rest The' heroic dame' whose happy whom she bless'd, Moved with just grief, expostulates with Heaven, Urging the promise to the' obsequious given, Of longer life; for ne'er was pious soul More apt to' obey, more worthy to control. A skilful eye at once might read the race Of Caledonian monarchs in her face, And sweet humility: her look and mind At once were lofty, and at once were kind. There dwelt the scorn of vice, and pity too, For those that did what she disdain'd to do: So gentle and severe, that what was bad, At once her hatred and her pardon had. Gracious to all; but where her love was due, So fast, so faithful, loyal, and so true,
That a bold hand as soon might hope to force The rolling lights of Heaven as change her course, 2 Christian, Countess of Devonshire.
Some happy angel, that beholds her there, Instruct us to record what she was here! And when this cloud of sorrow's over-blown, Through the wide world we'll make her graces known.
So fresh the wound is, and the grief so vast, That all our art and power of speech is waste. Here passion sways, but there the Muse shall raise Eternal monuments of louder praise.
There our delight complying with her fame, Shall have occasion to recite thy name, Fair Sacharissa !-and now only fair! To sacred friendship we'll an altar rear, (Such as the Romans did erect of old) Where on a marble pillar shall be told The lovely passion each to other bare, With the resemblance of that matchless pair. Narcissus, to the thing for which he pined, Was not more like than yours to her fair mind, Save that she graced the several parts of life, A spotless virgin, and a faultless wife.
Such was the sweet converse 'twixt her and you, As that she holds with her associates now.
How false is Hope, and how regardless Fate, That such a love should have so short a date! Lately I saw her sighing part from thee; (Alas that such the last farewell should be!) So look'd Astræa, her remove design'd, On those distressed friends she left behind, Consent in virtue knit your hearts so fast, That still the knot, in spite of death, does last; For as your tears, and sorrow-wounded soul, Prove well that on your part this bond is whole, So all we know of what they do above, Is that they happy are, and that they love.
Let dark oblivion, and the hollow grave,
Content themselves our frailer thoughts to have :
Well-chosen love is never taught to die,
But with our nobler part invades the sky.
Then grieve no more that one so heavenly shaped
The crooked hand of trembling Age escaped:
Rather, since we beheld her not decay,
But that she vanish'd so entire away,
Her wondrous beauty and her goodness merit
We should suppose, that some propitious spirit
In that celestial form frequented here,
And is not dead, but ceases to appear.
ANGER, in hasty words or blows,
Itself discharges on our foes:
And sorrow, too, finds some relief
In tears, which wait upon our grief :
So every passion, but fond love,
Unto its own redress does move;
But that alone the wretch inclines
To what prevents his own designs;
Makes him lament, and sigh, and weep,
Disorder'd, tremble, fawn, and creep;
Postures which render him despised,
Where he endeavours to be prized.
For women (born to be controll'd)
Stoop to the forward and the bold;
Affect the haughty and the proud,
The gay, the frolic, and the loud.
Who first the generous steed oppress'd,
Not kneeling did salute the beast;
But with high courage, life, and force,
Approaching, tamed the' unruly horse.
Unwisely we the wiser East
Pity, supposing them opprest
With tyrants' force, whose law is will,
By which they govern, spoil, and kill :
Each nymph, but moderately fair,
Commands with no less rigour here.
Should some brave Turk, that walks among
His twenty lasses, bright and young,
And beckons to the willing dame,
Preferred to quench his present flame,
Behold as many gallants here,
With modest guise and silent fear,
All to one female idol bend,
While her high pride does scarce descend
To mark their follies, he would swear
That these her guard of eunuchs were,
And that a more majestic queen
Or humbler slaves, he had not seen.
All this with indignation spoke,
In vain I struggled with the yoke
Of mighty Love: that conquering look,
When next beheld, like lightning strook
My blasted soul, and made me bow
Lower than those I pitied now.
So the tall stag, upon the brink
Of some smooth stream about to drink,
Surveying there his armed head,
With shame remembers that he fled
The scorned dogs, resolves to try
The combat next; but if their cry
Invades again his trembling ear,
He straight resumes his wonted care,
Leaves the untasted spring behind,
And, wing'd with fear, outflies the wind.
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