III.

TO THE MORNING:

SATISFACTION FOR SLEEP.

WHAT succour can I hope my Muse shall send,
Whose drowsiness hath wrong'd the 'Muses' friend?
What hope, Aurora, to propitiate thee,

Unless the Muse sing my apology?

O in that morning of my shame! when I

Lay folded up in Sleep's captivity,

How at the sight didst thou draw back thine eyes
Into thy modest veil! how didst thou rise

Twice dyed in thine own blushes! and didst run
To draw the curtains, and awake the Sun!
Who, rousing his illustrious tresses, came,
And seeing the loathed object, hid for shame
His head in thy fair bosom, and still hides
Me from his patronage; I pray, he chides :
And pointing to dull Morpheus, bids me take
My own Apollo, try if I can make

His Lethe be my Helicon and see

:

If Morpheus have a Muse to wait on me.
Hence tis, my humble fancy finds no wings,

No nimble rapture starts to Heaven, and brings
Enthusiastic flames, such as can give

Marrow to my plump genius, make it live
Dress'd in the glorious madness of a Muse,

Whose feet can walk the Milky Way, and choose
Her starry throne; whose holy heats can warm
The grave, and hold up an exalted arm
To lift me from my lazy urn, to climb
Upon the stoopèd shoulders of old Time,

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15.

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And trace Eternity-But all is dead,
All these delicious hopes are buried
In the deep wrinkles of his angry brow,
Where Mercy cannot find them; but O thou
Bright lady of the Morn! pity doth lie
So warm in thy soft breast, it cannot die.
Have mercy then, and when he next shall rise
O meet the angry God, invade his eyes,
And stroke his radiant cheeks; one timely kiss
Will kill his anger, and revive my bliss.
So to the treasure of thy pearly dew,

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Thrice will I pay three tears, to show how true

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My grief is; so my wakeful lay shall knock
At th' oriental gates, and duly mock

The early larks' shrill orisons, to be

An anthem at the Day's nativity.

And the same rosy-finger'd hand of thine,

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That shuts Night's dying eyes, shall open mine.

But thou, faint God of Sleep, 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

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Myself a melting sacrifice; I'm born

Again a fresh child of the buxom Morn,

Heir of the Sun's first beams. Why threat'st thou so?
Why dost thou shake thy leaden sceptre? go,

Bestow thy poppy upon wakeful Woe,

Sickness, and Sorrow, whose pale lids ne'er know
Thy downy finger; dwell upon their eyes,
Shut in their tears: shut out their miseries.

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IV.

ON A FOUL MORNING, BEING THEN TO TAKE
A JOURNEY.

WHERE art thou, Sol, while thus the blindfold Day
Staggers out of the East, loses her way,

Stumbling on Night? Rouse thee, illustrious youth,
And let no dull mists choke thy Light's fair growth.
Point here thy beams: O glance on yonder flocks,
And make their fleeces golden as thy locks.
Unfold thy fair front, and there shall appear
Full glory, flaming in her own free sphere.
Gladness shall clothe the Earth, we will instile
The face of things an universal smile:

Say to the sullen Morn, thou com'st to court her;
And wilt command proud Zephyrus to sport her
With wanton gales: his balmy breath shall lick
The tender drops which tremble on her cheek;
Which rarified, and in a gentle rain
On those delicious banks distill'd again,
Shall rise in a sweet Harvest, which discloses
Two ever-blushing beds of new-born roses.

He'll fan her bright locks, teaching them to flow,
And frisk in curl'd meanders: he will throw
A fragrant breath suck'd from the spicy nest
O' th' precious phoenix, warm upon her breast.
He with a dainty and soft hand will trim
And brush her azure mantle, which shall swim
In silken volumes; wheresoe'er she'll tread,
Bright clouds like golden fleeces shall be spread.

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ΙΟ

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Rise then (fair blue-eyed maid!) rise and discover

Thy silver brow, and meet thy golden lover.

See how he runs, with what a hasty flight,

Into thy bosom, bathed with liquid light.

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Fly, fly profane fogs, far hence fly away,

Taint not the pure streams of the springing Day,
With your dull influence; it is for
for you

To sit and scowl upon Night's heavy brow,

Not on the fresh cheeks of the virgin Morn,

Where naught but smiles, and ruddy joys are worn.
Fly then, and do not think with her to stay;
Let it suffice, she'll wear no mask to-day.

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V.

IN PRAISE OF LESSIUS'S RULE OF HEALTH.

Go now, with some daring drug,
Bait thy disease, and while they tug,
Thou, to maintain their cruel strife
Spend the dear treasure of thy life:
Go take physic, dote upon

Some big-named composition,

The oraculous doctors' mystic bills,
Certain hard words made into pills;

And what at length shalt get by these?
Only a costlier disease.

Go poor man, think what shall be

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ΙΟ

Remedy 'gainst thy remedy.

That which makes us have no need

Of physic, that's physic indeed.

Hark hither, Reader: wouldst thou see
Nature her own physician be?

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Wouldst see a man all his own wealth,
His own music, his own health?

A man, whose sober soul can tell
How to wear her garments well?

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In Praise of Lessius's Rule of Health.

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Her garments, that upon her sit,

(As garments should do,) close and fit?

A well-clothed soul, that's not oppress'd

Nor choked with what she should be dress'd?
Whose soul's sheath'd in a crystal shrine,

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Through which all her bright features shine?
As when a piece of wanton lawn,

A thin aërial veil is drawn,

Warm thoughts, free spirits, flattering
Winter's self into a Spring?

In sum, wouldst see a man that can

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Live to be old, and still a man?

Whose latest, and most leaden hours

Fall with soft wings, stuck with soft flowers;

And when Life's sweet fable ends,

His soul and body part like friends :

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No quarrels, murmurs, no delay :

A kiss, a sigh, and so away?

This rare one, Reader, wouldst thou see,
Hark hither and thyself be he!

I