I kiss'd, and play'd in her bright eyes,
Discours'd, as is the lover's guise,
Call'd her the auth'ress of my woe:
The nymph was kind, but would not do ;
Faith, she was kind, which made me bold,
Grow hot, as her denials cold.

But, ah! at last I parted, wounded more
With her soft pity, than her eyes before.

THE VISIT.

DARK was the silent shade, that hid
The fair Castanna from my sight:
The night was black (as it had need)
That could obscure so great a light.
Under the concave of each lid

A flaming ball of beauty bright,
Wrapt in a charming slumber lay,
That else would captivate the day.
(Led by a passionate desire)

I boldly did attempt the way;
And though my dull eyes wanted fire,
My seeing soul knew where she lay,
Thus, whilst I blindly did aspire,
Fear to displease her made me stay,

A doubt too weak for mine intent,
I knew she would forgive, and went.
Near to her maiden bed I drew,

Blest in so rare a chance as this;
When by her odorous breath I knew
I did approach my love, my bliss:
Then did I eagerly pursue

My hopes, and found and stole a kiss: Such as perhaps Pygmalion took, When cold his ivory love forsook. Soft was the sleep sat on her eyes,

As softest down, or whitest snow; So gentle rest upon them lies,

Happy to charm those beauties so; For which a thousand thousand dies, Or living, live in restless woe;

For all that see her killing eye,
With love or admiration die.
Chaste were the thoughts that had the power
To make me hazard this offence;

I mark'd the sleeps of this fair flower,
And found them full of innocence;
Wond'ring that hers, who slew each hour,
Should have so undisturb'd a sense:

But, ah! these murders of mankind
Fly from her beauty, not her mind.
Thus, while she sweetly slept, sat I
Contemplating the lovely maid,
Of every tear, and every sigh

That sallied from my breast, afraid.
And now the morning star drew nigh,
When, fearing thus to be betray'd,

I softly from my nymph did move,
Wounded with everlasting love.

DE LUPO.

EPIGRAM.

WHEN Lupus has wrought hard all day,
And the declining Sun,

By stooping to embrace the sea,
Tells him the day's nigh done;

Then to his young wife home he hies,

With his sore labour sped,

Who bids him welcome home, and cries, "Pray, husband, come to bed."

"Thanks, wife," quoth he, "but I were blest, Would'st thou once call me to my rest."

ON UPSTART.

And yet my Cælia did not fall

As grosser earthly mortals do,
But stoop'd, like Phoebus, to renew
Her lustre by her morning rise,
And dart new beauties in the skies.
Like a white dove, she took her flight,
And, like a star, she shot her light:
This dove, this star, so lov'd of all,
My fair, dear, sweetest, did not fall.
But, if you'll say my Cælia fell,

Of this I'm sure, that, like the dart
Of Love it was, and on my heart;
Poor heart, alas! wounded before,
She needed not have hurt it more:
So absolute a conquest she

Had gain'd before of it, and me,
That neither of us have been well
Before, or since my Cælia fell.

ЕРІТАРН

ON MRS. MARY DRAPER.

READER, if thou cast thine eye

On this weeping stone below: Know, that under it doth lie

One, that never man did know. Yet of all men full well known

By those beauties of her breast: For, of all she wanted none,

When Death call'd her to her rest.

Then the ladies, if they would

Die like her, kind reader, tell,, They must strive to be as good Alive, or 'tis impossible.

CELIA'S FALL.

CALIA, my fairest Cælia, fell,

Calia, than the fairest, fairer ;

Cælia, (with none I must compare her)
That all alone is all in all,

Of what we fair and modest call;
Calia, white as alabaster,
Cælia, than Diana chaster;
This fair, fair Cælia, grief to tell,
This fair, this modest, chaste one, fell.
My Cælia, sweetest Cælia, fell,

As I have seen a snow-white dove
Decline her bosom from above,
And down her spotless body fling
Without the motion of the wing,
Till she arrest her seeming fall
Upon some happy pedestal:
So soft, this sweet, I love so well,
This sweet, this dove-like Calia, fell.
Cælia, my dearest Cælia, fell,

As I have scen a melting star
Drop down its fire from its sphere,
Rescuing so its glorious sight
From that paler snuff of light:
Yet is a star bright and entire,
As when 'twas wrapt in all that fire:
50 bright, this dear, I love so well,
This dear, this star-like Cælia, fell.

Her heresy,

That my faith branded with inconstancy.

When Thisbe's Pyramus was slain,
This sigh had fetch'd him back again,
And such a sigh from Dido's chest
Wafted the Trojan to her breast.
Each of her sighs

My love does prize
Reward, for thousand thousand cruelties.

Sigh on, my sweet, and by thy breath,
Immortal grown, I'll langh at death.
Had fame so sweet a one, we should
In that regard learn to be good:
Sigh on, my fair,
Henceforth, I swear,

I could cameleon turn, and live by air.

ON THE LAMENTED DEATH OF MY DEAR UNCLE,
MR. RADCLIFF STANHOPE.

Such is th' unsteady state of human things,
And death so certain, that their period brings,
So frail is youth, and strength, so sure this sleep,
That much we cannot wonder, though we weep.
Yet, since 'tis so, it will not misbecome,
Either perhaps our sorrows or his tomb

To breathe a sigh, and drop a mourning tear,
Upon the cold face of his sepulchre.
Well did his life deserve it, if to be

A great example of integrity,

Honour and truth, fidelity and love,
In such perfection, as if each had strove
'T' outdo posterity, may deserve our care,
Or to his funeral command a tear.
Faithful he was, and just, and sweetly good,
To whom ally'd in virtue, or in blood:
His breast (from other conversation chaste)
Above the reach of giddy vice was plac'd:
Then, had not Death (that crops in's savage speed
The fairest flower with the rankest weed)
Thus made a beastly conquest of his prime,
And cut him off before grown ripe for time,
How bright an evening must this morn pursue,
Is to his life a contemplation due.

Proud Death, t' arrest his thriving virtue thus!
Unhappy fate! not to himself, but us,
That so have lost him; for, no doubt but he
Was fit for Heav'n, as years could make hiin be:
Age does but muster sin, and heap up woes
Against the last and general rendezvous;
Whereas he dy'd full of obedient truth,
Wrapt in his spotless innocence of youth.
Farewel, dear uncle, may thy hop'd-for bliss
To thee be real, as my sorrow is;
May they be nam'd together, since I do
Nothing more perfect than my sorrow know;
And if thy soul into men's minds have eyes,
It knows I truly weep these obscquies.

ON THE LORD DERBY.

To what a formidable greatness grown
Is this prodigious beast, rebellion,
When sovereignty, and its so sacred law,
Thus lies subjected to his tyrant awe!
And to what daring impudence he grows,
When, not content to trample upon those,
He still destroys all that with honest flames
Of loyal love would propagate their names!
In this great ruin, Derby, lay thy fate,
(Derby, unfortunately fortunate)
Unhappy thus to fall a sacrifice

To such an irreligious power as this;
And blest, as 'twas thy nobler sense to die
A constant lover of thy loyalty.

Nor is it thy calamity alone,
Since more lie whelm'd in this subversion:
And first, the justest, and the best of kings,

Rob'd in the glory of his sufferings,
By his too violent fate inform'd us all,
What tragic ends attended his great fall;
Since when his subjects, some by chance of war,
Some by perverted justice at the bar,
Have perish'd thus, what th' other leaves, this
And whoso 'scapes the sword, falls by the axe:
Amongst which throng of martyrs none could
boast

[takes,

Of more fidelity, than the world has lost
In losing thee, when (in contempt of spite)
Thy steady faith, at th' exit crown'd with light,
His head above their malice did advance,
They could not murder thy allegiance,
Not when before those judges brought to th' test,
Who, in the symptoms of thy ruin drest,
Pronounc'd thy sentence. Basilisks! whose breath
Is killing poison, and whose locks are death.
Then how unsafe a guard man's virtue is
In this false age, (when such as do amiss

Since I'd been told a woman's mind
Varies as oft as April's face;
But I suppos'd thine more refin'd,
And so it was.

Till (sway'd by thy unruly blood)

Thou changedst thy uncertain will,
And 'tis far worse to have been good,
Than to be ill.

Methinks thou'rt blemish'd in each part,
And so or worse than others are;
Those eyes grown hollow as thy heart,
Which two suns were.

Thy cheeks are sunk, and thy smooth skin
Looks like a conquest now of Time;
Sure thou'd'st an age to study in
For such a crime.

Thou'rt so transform'd, that I in thee
(As 'tis a general loss) more grieve
Thy falling from thyself, than me
Fool to believe!

For I by this am taught to prize

The inward beauties of the breast, 'Bove all the gaieties of the eyes

Where treasons rest.

Whereas, grown black with this abuse Offer'd to Love's commanding throne, Thou may'st despair of an excuse,

And wish 't undone.

Farewel, thou pretty brittle piece

Of fine-cut crystal, which once was, Of all my fortune and my bliss,

The only glass,

Now something else: but in its state
Of former lustre, fresh and green
My faith shall stand, to show thee what
Thou should'st have been.

LOVE'S TRIUMPH.

GOD Cupid's power was ne'er so shown,
Since first the boy could draw a bow,

In all past ages, as this one,

This lovesick age we live in now:

Now he and she, from high to low,
Or lovers are, or would seem so.

His arrows now are every where,
In every lip, and every eye,

From young, from old, from foul, and fair,
This little archer lets them fly:

He is a traitor to Love's throne,

That has no love, or seems t' have none.

If she be young and fair, we do

Think her the blessing of this life;

And, out of that opinion, woo

Her for a mistress or a wife;
And if they think us able men,
The pretty souls will love again.

Or, if she be a wife, and that

A jealous ass corrupts her bed,
We build our pleasures on his fate,
And for her sake do crown his head;

So what he fears a truth doth prove,
And what's this but a trick of love