And like to Merchants after fome great Lois,
Trade by retail, that cannot do in grofs.
The Fault is hers that made me go aftray,
He needs must wander that has loft his Way:
Guiltless I am; fhe do's this Change provoke,
And made that Charcoal, which to her was Oak.
And as a Looking-Glafs from the Afpect,
Whilft it is whole, do's but one Face reflect,
But being crackt or broken, there are grown
Many lefs Faces, where there was but one:
So Love unto my Heart did first prefer
Her Image, and there placed none but her;
But fince 'twas broke and martyr'd by her Scorn,
Many lefs Faces in her Place are born.

Love's Reprefentation.

Leaning her Hand upon my Breaft,

There on Love's Bed fhe lay to reft;
My panting Heart rock'd her afleep,
My heedful Eyes the Watch did keep,
Then Love by me being harbour'd there,
Chose Hope to be his Harbinger;
Defire, his Rival, kept the Door;
For this of him I begg'd no more,
But that, our Mistress t' entertain,
Some pretty Fancy he wou'd frame,
And reprefent it in a Dream,

Of which my felf fhou'd give the Theam.
Then first these Thoughts I bid him fhow,
Which only he and I did know,
Array'd in Duty and Respect,
And not in Fancies that reflect;
Then thofe of value next prefent,
Approv'd by all the World's confent;

But

But to diftinguish mine afunder,
Apparell'd they must be in Wonder.
Such a Device then I wou'd have,
As Service, not Reward, fhou'd crave,
Attir'd in fpotless Innocence,

Not felf-refpect, nor no Pretence:
Then fuch a Faith I wou'd have shown,
As heretofore was never known,
Cloath'd with a conftant clear Intent,
Profeffing always as it meant.

And if Love no fuch Garments have
My Mind a Wardrobe is so brave,
That there fufficient he may fee
To cloath Impoffibility.

Then beamy Fetters he fhall find,
By Admiration fubt'ly twin'd,

That will keep faft the wantoneft Thought,
That e'er Imagination wrought:

There he fhall find of Joy a Chain,
Fram'd by Despair of her Difdain,
So curiously that it can't tie

The smallest Hopes that Thoughts now spie.
There Acts as glorious as the Sun,

Are by her Veneration fpun,

In one of which I wou'd have brought
A pure unfpotted abftract Thought.
Confidering her as the is good,

Not in her Frame of Flesh and Blood.
These Atoms then, all in her Sight,
I bad him joyn, that fo he might

Discern between true Love's Creation,

And that Love's Form that's now in Fashion.
Love, granting unto my Requeft;
Began to labour in my Breaft;

But with the Motion he did make,
It heav'd fo high that she did wake.
Blush'd at the Favour fhe had done,
Then fmil'd, and then

away did run.

E

SONG:

SONG.

HE crafty Boy, that had full oft effay'd
To pierce my stubborn and refifting Breaft,
But ftill the bluntnefs of his Darts betray'd,
Refolv'd at last of setting up his Reft,

Either my wild unruly Heart to tame,
Or quit his Godhead, and his Bow disclaim.
So all his lovely Looks, his pleafing Fires,
All his fweet Motions, all his taking Smiles;
All that awakes, all that inflames Defires,
All that fweetly Commands, all that beguiles,
He does into one Pair of Eyes convey,

And there begs Leave that he himself may stay.
And there he brings me, where his Ambush lay
Secure, and careless to a stranger Land:
And never warning me, which was foul Play,
Does make me close by all this Beauty ftand.

Where firft ftruck dead, I did at last recover,
To know that I might only live to love her.
So I'll be fworn I do, and do confefs,
The blind Lad's Pow'r, whilft he inhabits there;
But I'll be ev'n with him nevertheless,

If e'er I chance to meet with him elsewhere.
If other Eyes invite the Boy to tarry,
I'll flie to hers as to a Sanctuary.

Upon the Black Spots worn by my Lady D. E.

Madam,

I know your Heart cannot fo guilty be,

you fhou'd wear those Spots for Vanity;

That you

Or

Or as your Beauties Trophies, put on one
For every Murther which your Eyes have done;
No, they're your Mourning-weeds for Hearts forlorn,
Which tho' you must not Love, you cou'd not fcorn;
To whom fince cruel Honour do's deny

Thofe Joys cou'd only cure their Mifery;
Yet you this noble Way to grace 'em found,
Whilft thus your Grief their Martyrdom has crown'd:
Of which take heed you prove not Prodigal,
For if to every common Funeral,

By your Eyes martyr'd, fuch Grace were allow'd,
Your Face wou'd wear not Patches, but a Cloud.

SONG.

IF you refuse me once, and think again,
I will complain,

You are deceiv'd; Love is no Work of Art,
It must be got and born,

Not made and worn,

By every one that has a Heart.

Or do you think they more than once can dye,
Whom you deny.

Who tell you of a thousand Deaths a Day,

Like the old Poets feign

And tell the Pain

They met, but in the common Way.

Or do you think't too foon to yield,
And quit the Field.

Nor is that right they yield that firft intreat;
Once one may crave for Love,
'But more wou'd prove

This Heart too little, that too great.

Oh that I were all Soul, that I might prove

For you ás fit a Love,

As you are for an Angel; for I know
None but pure Spirits are fit Loves for you.
You are all Etherial, there's in you no Dross,
Nor any Part that's grofs,

Your courseft Part is like a curious Lawn,
The Vestal Relicks for a Covering drawn.

Your other Parts, Part of the pureft Fire,
That e'er Heav'n did inspire;

Make every Thought that is refin'd by it,

A Quinteffence of Goodnefs and of Wit.

Thus have your Raptures reach'd to that Degree
In Love's Philosophy,

That you can figure to your felf a Fire
Void of all Heat, a Love without Defire.
Nor in Divinity do you go lefs,

You think, and you profefs,

That Souls may have a Plenitude of Joy,
Altho' their Bodies meet not to employ..

But I must needs confefs, I do not find
The Motions of my Mind

So purify'd as yet, but at the best
My Body claims in them an Intereft.

I hold that perfect Joy makes all our Parts
As joyful as our Hearts.

Our Senfes tell us, if we please not them,
Our Love is but a Dotage or a Dream.

How shall we then agree? You may defcend,
But will not, to my End.

I fain wou'd tune my Fancy to your Key,
But cannot reach to that obftructed Way.

There refts but this, that whilft we forrow here
Our Bodies may draw near:

And when no more their Joys they can extend,

Then let our Souls begin where they did end.

Pro