Page images

Out of the Italian.

A Song.

To thy Lover,
Deere, discover

That sweet blush of thine that shameth (When those Roses It discloses)

All the flowers that Nature nameth.

In free Ayre,
Flow thy Haire;

That no more Summers best dresses,
Bee beholden

For their Golden

Locks, to Phoebus flaming Tresses.

O deliver

Love his Quiver,

From thy Eyes he shoots his Arrowes,
Where Apollo
Cannot follow:

Featherd with his Mothers Sparrowes.

O envy not

(That we dye not)

Those deere lips whose doore encloses
All the Graces
In their places,

Brother Pearles, and sister Roses.

From these treasures
Of ripe pleasures

One bright smile to cleere the weather.

Earth and Heaven

Thus made even,

Both will be good friends together.

The aire does wooe thee,
Winds cling to thee;

Might a word once flye from out thee,
Storme and Thunder
Would sit under,

And keepe silence round about thee.

But if Natures

Common Creatures,

So deare Glories dare not borrow:
Yet thy Beauty
Owes a Duty,

To my loving, lingring, sorrow.

When to end mee

Death shall send mee

All his Terrors to affright mee :
Thine eyes Graces
Gild their faces,

And those Terrors shall delight mee.

When my dying
Life is flying,

Those sweet Aires that often slew mee
Shall revive mee,
Or reprive mee,
And to many Deaths renew mee.

Out of the Italian.


Ove now no fire hath left him, We two betwixt us have divided it. Your Eyes the Light hath reft him, The heat commanding in my Heart doth sit. O! that poore Love be not for ever spoyled, Let my Heat to your Light be reconciled.

So shall these flames, whose worth
Now all obscured lyes,

(Drest in those Beames) start forth And dance before your eyes.

Or else partake my flames
(I care not whither)
And so in mutuall Names
Of Love, burne both together.

Out of the Italian.

Would any one the true cause find

How Love came nak't, a Boy, and blind? 'Tis this; listning one day too long, To th' Syrens in my Mistris Song, The extasie of a delight

So much o're-mastring all his might,
To that one Sense, made all else thrall,

And so he lost his Clothes, eyes, heart and all.

In faciem Augustiss. Regis à morbillis integram.


Usa redi; vocat alma parens Academia: Noster
En redit, ore suo noster Apollo redit.
Vultus adhuc suus, & vultu sua purpura tantùm
Vivit, & admixtas pergit amare nives.
Tune illas violare genas? tune illa profanis,
Morbe ferox, tentas ire per ora notis?
Tu Phabi faciem tentas, vanissime? Nostra
Nec Phoebe maculas novit habere suas.
Ipsa sui vindex facies morbum indignatur ;
Ipsa sedet radiis ô bene tuta suis:
Quippe illic deus est, coelumque & sanctius astrum;
Quippe sub his totus ridet Apollo genis.
Quod facie Rex tutus erat, quòd cætera tactus:
Hinc hominem Rex est fassus, & inde deum.

[ocr errors]

[On the Frontispiece of Isaacsons Chronologie explaned.


F with distinctive Eye, and Mind, you looke
Upon the Front, you see more than one Booke.
Creation is Gods Booke, wherein he writ
Each Creature, as a Letter filling it.
History is Creations Booke; which showes
To what effects the Series of it goes.
Chronologie's the Booke of Historie, and beares
The just account of Dayes, Moneths, and Yeares.
But Resurrection, in a Later Presse,

And New Edition, is the summe of these.
The Language of these Bookes had all been one,
Had not th' Aspiring Tower of Babylon
Confus'd the Tongues, and in a distance hurl'd
As farre the speech, as men, o'th' new fill'd world.
Set then your eyes in method, and behold
Times embleme, Saturne; who, when store of Gold
Coyn'd the first age, Devour'd that Birth, he fear'd;
Till History, Times eldest Child appear'd;
And Phoenix-like, in spight of Saturnes rage,
Forc'd from her Ashes, Heyres in every age.
From th'rising Sunne, obtaining by just Suit,
A Springs Ingender, and an Autumnes Fruit.
Who in those Volumes at her motion pend,
Unto Creations Alpha doth extend.
Againe ascend, and view Chronology,
By Optick Skill pulling farre History
Neerer; whose Hand the piercing Eagles Eye
Strengthens, to bring remotest Objects nigh.
Under whose Feet, you see the Setting Sunne,
From the darke Gnomon, o're her Volumes runne,
Drown'd in eternall night, never to rise,
Till Resurrection show it to the eyes

Of Earth-worne men; and her shrill Trumpets sound
Affright the Bones of Mortals from the ground.

The Columnes both are crown'd with either Sphere,
To show Chronology and History beare,
No other Culmen than the double Art,
Astronomy, Geography, impart.]

« PreviousContinue »