Thy beauties therefore wrong will take, Bestow thy beauty then on me, Shall grow immortal as thy mind. I'll fix thy title next in fame. What all thy wondrous beauties are, All women shall together rise, Men straight shall cast their eyes on thee, THE SPRING. THOUGH you be absent here, I needs must say As if they sung to pleasure you: I saw a rose-bud ope this morn-I'll swear How could it be so fair, and you away? year, How you did them, they you, delight, The sprouting leaves which saw you here, Would, looking round for the same sight in vain, shade. Where'er you walk'd, trees were as reverent made, Dull creatures! 'tis not without cause that she, In ancient times, sure, they much wiser were, When Orpheus had his song begun- How would those learned trees have follow'd you! But who can blame them now? for, since you're Wherever you did walk or sit, The thickest boughs could make no shade, The fairest flowers could please no more, near you, Than painted flowers, set next to them, could do. 12 WRITTEN IN JUICE OF LEMON. Whene'er then you come hither, that shall be "Tis the best of seasons with you bring; This is for beasts, and that for men, the Spring. WRITTEN IN JUICE OF LEMON. WHILST what I write I do not see, I dare thus, even to you, write poetry. How much it does thy power excel, 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, Scrawl'd 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; A more gentle ordeal fire, And bid her by Love's flames read it again. 13 Strange power of heat! thou yet dost show A sudden paint adorns the trees, 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. Still, silly paper! thou wilt think That all this might as well be writ with ink: Oh, no; there's sense in this, and mysteryThou 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. INCONSTANCY. FIVE years ago (says Story) I loved you, you For I am not the same that I was then ; Must of all things most strangely inconstant prove, bear. The world's a scene of changes; and to be For 'twere to break the laws herself has made; |