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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 would be married to a single Life.
Hat succour can I hope the Muse will send
Whose drowsinesse hath wrong'd the Muses friend? What hope Aurora to propitiate thee,
Unlesse the Muse sing my Apologie?
O in that morning of my shame! when I
Lay folded up in sleepes captivity,
How at the sight did'st Thou draw back thine Eyes,
Into thy modest veyle? how did'st thou rise
Twice dy'd in thine own blushes, and did'st run
To draw the Curtaines, and awake the Sun?
Who rowzing his illustrious tresses came,
And seeing the loath'd object, hid for shame
His head in thy faire Bosome, and still hides
Mee from his Patronage; I pray, he chides:
And pointing to dull Morpheus, bids me take
My owne Apollo, try if I can make
His Lethe be my Helicon; and see
If Morpheus have a Muse to wait on mee.
Hence 'tis my humble fancie findes no wings,
No nimble rapture starts to Heaven and brings
Enthusiasticke flames, such as can give
Marrow to my plumpe Genius, make it live
Drest in the glorious madnesse of a Muse,
Whose feet can walke the milky way, and chuse
Her starry Throne; whose holy heats can warme
The grave, and hold up an exalted arme
To lift me from my lazy Urne, to climbe
Upon the stooping shoulders of old Time,
And trace Eternity But all is dead,
All these delicious hopes are buried.
In the deepe wrinckles of his angry brow,
Where mercy cannot find them: but ô thou
Bright Lady of the Morne, pitty doth lye
So warme in thy soft Brest it cannot dye.
Have mercy then, and when He next shall rise
O meet the angry God, invade his Eyes,
And stroake his radiant Cheekes; one timely kisse
Will kill his anger, and revive my blisse.
So to the treasure of thy pearly deaw,
Thrice will I pay three Teares, to show how true
My griefe is; so my wakefull lay shall knocke
At th'Orientall Gates; and duly mocke
The early Larkes shrill Orizons, to be
An Anthem at the Dayes Nativitie.
And the same rosie-finger'd hand of thine,
That shuts Nights dying eyes, shall open mine.
But thou, faint God of sleepe, forget that I
Was ever known to be thy votary.
No more my pillow shall thine Altar be,
Nor will I offer any more to thee
My selfe a melting sacrifice; I'me borne
Againe a fresh Child of the Buxome Morne,
Heire of the Suns first Beames; why threat'st thou so? Why dost thou shake thy leaden Scepter? goe,
Bestow thy Poppy upon wakefull woe,
Sicknesse, and sorrow, whose pale lidds ne're know
Thy downie finger, dwell upon their Eyes,
Shut in their Teares; Shut out their miseries.
Ow fit our well-rank'd Feasts do follow!
All mischiefe comes after All-Hallow.
Ove, brave Vertues younger Brother, Erst hath made my Heart a Mother, Shee consults the conscious Spheares, To calculate her young sons yeares. Shee askes if sad, or saving powers, Gave Omen to his infant howers, Shee askes each starre that then stood by, If poore Love shall live or dy.
Ah my Heart, is that the way?
Are these the Beames that rule thy Day?
Thou know'st a Face in whose each looke,
Beauty layes ope Loves Fortune-booke;
On whose faire revolutions wait
The obsequious motions of Loves fate;
Ah my Heart, her eyes and shee,
Have taught thee new Astrologie.
How e're Loves native houres were set,
What ever starry Synod met,
'Tis in the mercy of her eye,
If poore Love shall live or dye.
If those sharpe Rayes putting on
Points of Death bid Love be gon,
(Though the Heavens in counsell sate,
To crowne an uncontrouled Fate,
Though their best Aspects twin'd upon
The kindest Constellation,
Cast amorous glances on his Birth,
And whisper'd the confederate Earth
To pave his pathes with all the good
That warms the Bed of youth and blood;)
Love ha's no plea against her eye,
Beauty frownes, and Love must dye.