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To gods appealing, when I reach their bow'rs
With loud complaints, they answer me in show'rs.
To thee a wild and cruel soul is giv'n,

More deaf than trees, and prouder than the heav'n!
Love's foe profess'd! why dost thou falsely feign
Thyself a Sidney? from which noble strain
He sprung', that could so far exalt the name
Of Love, and warm our nation with his flame;
That all we can of love or high desire

Seems but the smoke of amorous Sidney's fire.
Nor call her mother who so well does prove
One breast may hold both chastity and love.
Never can she, that so exceeds the Spring
In joy and bounty, be suppos'd to bring
One so destructive. To no human stock
We owe this fierce unkindness, but the rock,
That cloven rock produc'd thee, by whose side
Nature, to recompense the fatal pride

Of such stern beauty, plac'd those healing springs 2,
Which not more help than that destruction brings.
Thy heart no ruder than the rugged stone,
I might, like Orpheus, with my numerous moan
Melt to compassion: now my traitorous song
With thee conspires to do the singer wrong;
While thus I suffer not myself to lose
The memory of what augments my woes;
But with my own breath still foment the fire,
Which flames as high as fancy can aspire!

This last complaint the' indulgent ears did pierce Of just Apollo, president of verse;

Highly concerned that the Muse should bring
Damage to one whom he had taught to sing :
Thus he advis'd me: On yon aged tree
Hang up thy lute, and hie thee to the sea,

1 Sir Philip Sidney.

2 Tunbridge Wells.

That there with wonders thy diverted mind
Some truce, at least, may with this passion find.”
Ah, cruel Nymph! from whom her humble swain
Flies for relief unto the raging main,

And from the winds and tempests does expect
A milder fate than from her cold neglect!
Yet there he'll pray that the unkind may prove
Blest in her choice; and vows this endless love
Springs from no hope of what she can confer,
But from those gifts which Heav'n has heap'd on her.

ON THE FRIENDSHIP BETWIXT
SACHARISSA AND AMORET.

TELL me, lovely, loving pair!
Why so kind, and so severe ?
Why so careless of our care,
Only to yourselves so dear?

By this cunning change of hearts,
You the pow'r of Love control,
While the Boy's deluded darts
Can arrive at neither soul.

For in vain to either breast

Still beguiled Love does come,
Where he finds a foreign guest,
Neither of your hearts at home.

Debtors thus with like design,

When they never mean to pay,
That they may the law decline,
To some friend make all away.

Not the silver doves that fly,
Yok'd in Cytherea's car,
Not the wings that lift so high,
And convey her son so far,

Are so lovely, sweet, and fair,
Or do more ennoble love;
Are so choicely match'd a pair,
Or with more consent do move.

A LA MALADE.

Aн, lovely Amoret! the care
Of all that know what's good or fair!
Is Heav'n become our rival too?
Had the rich gifts conferr'd on you
So amply thence, the common end
Of giving lovers-to pretend?

Hence to this pining sickness (meant
To weary thee to a consent

Of leaving us) no pow'r is giv'n
Thy beauties to impair; for Heav'n
Solicits thee with such a care,

As roses from their stalks we tear,
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.

UPON THE

DEATH OF MY LADY RICH.

MAY those already curs'd 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 grac'd,
Like Hero's taper in the window plac'd,
Such fate from the malignant air did find,
As that exposed to the boisterous wind.

Ah, cruel Heav'n! to snatch so soon away
Her for whose life, had we had time to pray,
With thousand vows and tears we should have sought
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 2 whose happy womb she blest,
Mov'd with just grief, expostulates with Heav'n,
Urging the promise to the' obsequious giv❜n,
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 Heav'n as change her course.
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
So fresh the wound is, and the grief so vast, [known.
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,

1 Venus.

2 Christian Countess of Devonshire.

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