Soft silken hours,

Open suns, shady bowers,

'Bove all—nothing within that lowers.

Whate'er delight

Can make day's forehead bright,

Or give down to the wings of night.

In her whole frame,

Have Nature all the name,

Art and ornament the shame.

Her flattery,

Picture and poesy,

Her counsel her own virtue be.

I wish her store

Of worth may leave her poor

Of wishes; and I wish

Now, if Time knows

-no more.

That her, whose radiant brows

Weave them a garland of my vows;

Her, whose just bays

My future hopes can raise,

A trophy to her present praise;

Her, that dares be

What these lines wish to see:
I seek no further, it is she.

"Tis she, and here,

Lo, I unclothe and clear

My Wish's cloudy character!

May she enjoy it,

Whose merit dare apply it,

But modesty dares still deny it!

Such worth as this is

Shall fix my flying wishes,

And determine them to kisses.

Let her full glory,

My fancies, fly before ye,

Be ye my fictions but her story.

UPON TWO GREEN APRICOCKS SENT TO

COWLEY BY SIR CRASHAW.

AKE these, Time's tardy truants, sent by me
To be chastised, sweet friend, and chid by
thee.

Pale sons of our Pomona! whose wan cheeks
Have spent the patience of expecting weeks,
Yet are scarce ripe enough at best to show
The red, but of the blush to thee they owe.
By thy comparison they shall put on
More summer in their shame's reflection,

Than e'er the fruitful Phoebus' flaming kisses
Kindled on their cold lips. O, had my wishes,
And the dear merits of your Muse, their due,
The year had found some fruit early as you;
Ripe as those rich composures, time computes
Blossoms, but our blest taste confesses fruits.
How does thy April-autumn mock those cold
Progressions 'twixt whose terms poor
Time grows
With thee alone he wears no beard; thy brain
Gives him the morning world's fresh gold again.
'Twas only Paradise, 'tis only thou,

old!

Whose fruit and blossoms both bless the same bough.
Proud in the pattern of thy precious youth,
Nature, methinks, might easily mend her growth.
Could she in all her births but copy thee,

Into the public year's proficiency,

No fruit should have the face to smile on thee,
Young master of the world's maturity!

But such whose sun-born beauties what they borrow
Of beams to-day, pay back again to-morrow,
Nor need be double-gilt. How, then, must these
Poor fruits look pale at thy Hesperides!

Fain would I chide their slowness, but in their
Defects I draw mine own dull character.
Take them, and me in them, acknowledging
How much my summer waits upon thy spring!*
* From the edition of 1648.

CARMEN DEO NOSTRO,

TE DECET HYMNUS.

SACRED POEMS,

COLLECTED,

CORRECTED,

AUGMENTED,

Most humbly PRESENTED,

TO MY LADY THE COUNTESS OF DENBIGH.

BY HER MOST DEVOTED SERVANT

RICH. CRASHAW.

In hearty acknowledgement of his immortal obligation to her goodness and charity.