Upon her forehead thousand cheerful graces, There by his play a thousand souls beguiles, Persuading more by simple modest smiles, Than ever he could force by arms, or crafty wiles. Upon her cheek doth Beauty's self implant Her eyes would swell, and burst, and melt in show'rs: Thrice fairer both than ever fairest ey'd : Heav'n never such a bridegroom yet descried; Nor ever earth so fair, so undefil'd a bride. Full of his Father shines his glorious face, His beams from nought did all this All display; And when to less than nought they fell away, He soon restor'd again by his new orient ray. All heav'n shines forth in her sweet face's frame: Her seeing stars (which we miscall bright eyes) More bright than is the morning's brightest flame, More fruitful than the May-time geminies: These, back restore the timely summer's fire; Those, springing thoughts in winter hearts inspire, Inspiriting dead souls, and quick'ning warm desire. These two fair suns in heav'nly spheres are plac'd, Her fairest self she dresses; there where lies All sweets, a glorious beauty to imparadise. His locks like raven's plumes, or shining jet, Her amber hair like to the sunny ray, With gold enamels fair the silver white; There heav'nly loves their pretty sportings play, Firing their darts in that wide flaming light: Her dainty neck, spread with that silver mould, Where double beauty doth itself unfold, In the own fair silver shrines, and borrow'd gold. His breast a rock of purest alabaster, Where Love's self sailing, shipwreck'd often sitteth. Her's a twin-rock, unknown, but to th' ship-master, Which harbours him alone, all other splitteth. Where better could her love than here have nested? Or he his thoughts than here more sweetly feasted? Then both their love and thoughts in each are ever rested. 1 Atlas. Run now you shepherd-swains; ah! run you thither, Where this fair bridegroom leads the blessed way: And haste, you lovely maids, haste you together With this sweet bride, while yet the sun-shine day Guides your blind steps; while yet loud summons call, That every wood and hill resounds withal, Come Hymen, Hymen come, drest in thy golden pall. The sounding echo back the music flung, While heavenly spheres unto the voices play'd. But lo! the day is ended with my song, And sporting bathes with that fair ocean maid: Stoop now thy wing, my muse, now stoop thee low: Hence may'st thou freely play, and rest thee now; While here I hang my pipe upon the willow bough. THE POOR MAN TO THE SCORNFUL, RICH MAN. If well thou viewst us, with no squinted eye, My little fills my little-wishing mind; Thou, having more than much, yet seekest more: Though still thou get'st, yet is thy want not spent, Whatever man possesses, God hath lent, To reckon how, and when, and where he spent ; The more thou hast, thy debt still grows the more. But seeing, God himself descended down His meat, his house, his grave were not his own, Let me be like my Head, whom I adore: MISERY AND HAPPINESS. Most wretched soul, that, here carousing pleasure, With all his heaven on earth; and, ne'er distress'd, Enjoys those fond delights without all measure, Most blessed soul, that, lifted up with wings PSALM XLII. METAPHRASED. Look, as an hart with sweat and blood embrued, When, O my God! when shall I come in place I dine and sup with sighs, with groans and tears, While all my foes mine ears with taunting load"Who now thy cries, who now thy prayer hears? Where is (say they) where is thy boasted God?” My molten heart, deep plung'd in sad despairs, Runs forth to thee in streams of tears and prayers. |