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Would have learn't a softer style,
The totall summe of Man appeares.
In all the Booke if any where
Writ in white Letters o're his head :
Or close unto his name annext,
But he, alas! even hee is dead,
Assenger who e're thou art,
In composure of his face,
Pointed him out in all his wayes,
Him while fresh and fragrant Time
E're Hebe's hand had overlaid
Enough, now (if thou canst) passe on,
Upon Doctor Brooke.
Brooke whose streame so great, so good,
Upon Ford's two Tragedies.
The Broken Heart.
'Hou cheat'st us Ford, mak'st one seeme two by Art. What is Loves Sacrifice, but The broken Heart.
On a foule Morning, being then to take a journey.
Here art thou Sol, while thus the blind fold Day Staggers out of the East, loses her way Stumbling on night? Rouze thee Illustrious Youth, And let no dull mists choake the Lights faire growth. Point here thy beames; ô glance on yonder flocks, And make their fleeces Golden as thy locks. Unfold thy faire front, and there shall appeare Full glory, flaming in her owne free spheare. Gladnesse shall cloath the Earth, we will instile The face of things, an universall smile. Say to the Sullen Morne, thou com'st to court her; And wilt command proud Zephirus to sport her With wanton gales: his balmy breath shall licke The tender drops which tremble on her cheeke; Which rarified, and in a gentle raine On those delicious bankes distill'd againe, Shall rise in a sweet Harvest, which discloses To every blushing Bed of new-borne Roses. Hee'l fan her bright locks, teaching them to flow, And friske in curl'd Maanders; Hee will throw A fragrant Breath suckt from the spicy nest O'th' pretious Phoenix, warme upon her Breast. Hee with a dainty and soft hand will trim, And brush her Azure Mantle, which shall swim In silken Volumes; wheresoe're shee'l tread, Bright clouds like Golden fleeces shall be spread.
Rise then (faire blew-ey'd Maid) rise and discover Thy silver brow, and meet thy Golden lover. See how hee runs, with what a hasty flight, Into thy bosome, bath'd with liquid Light. Fly, fly prophane fogs, farre hence fly away, Taint not the pure streames of the springing Day, With your dull influence; it is for you, To sit and scoule upon Nights heavy brow; Not on the fresh cheekes of the virgin Morne, Where nought but smiles, and ruddy joyes are worne. Fly then, and doe not thinke with her to stay; Let it suffice, shee'l weare no maske to day.
Upon the faire Ethiopian sent to a Gentlewoman.
O here the faire Chariclia! in whom strove So false a Fortune, and so true a Love. Now after all her toyles by Sea and Land,
O may she but arrive at your white hand, Her hopes are crown'd, onely she feares that than, Shee shall appeare true Ethiopian.
Would be married, but I'de have no Wife,
I a single Life.