To the Morning.

Satisfaction for sleepe.

W

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.

Upon the Powder day.

Ow fit our well-rank'd Feasts do follow!
All mischiefe comes after All-Hallow.

Ho

Loves Horoscope.

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.

But if her milder influence move,
And gild the hopes of humble Love :
(Though heavens inauspicious eye
Lay blacke on Loves Nativitie;
Though every Diamond in Joves crowne
Fixt his forehead to a frowne,)
Her Eye a strong appeale can give,
Beauty smiles and Love shall live.

O if Love shall live, & where,

But in her Eye, or in her Eare,
In her Brest, or in her Breath,
Shall I hide poore Love from Death?
For in the life ought else can give,
Love shall dye, although he live.

Or if Love shall dye, ô where,

But in her Eye, or in her Eare,
In her Breath, or in her Breast,
Shall I Build his funeral Nest?
While Love shall thus entombed lye,
Love shall live, although he dye.

Principi recèns natæ omen maternæ indolis.

C&

Resce, ô dulcibus imputanda Divis,
O cresce, & propera, puella Princeps,
In matris propera venire partes.
Et cùm par breve fulminum mirorum,
Illinc Carolus, & Jacobus indè,
In patris faciles subire famam,
Ducent fata furoribus decoris;
Cùm terror sacer, Angliciğ, magnum
Murmur nominis increpabit omnem
Late Bosporon, Ottomanicásque
Non picto quatiet tremore Lunas;
Te tunc altera, nec timenda paci,
Poscent prælia. Tu potens pudici
Vibratrix oculi, pios in hostes
Latè dulcia fata dissipabis.
O cùm flos tener ille, qui recenti
Pressus sidere jam sub ora ludit,
Olim fortior omne cuspidatos
Evolvet latus aureum per ignes;
Quig imbellis adhuc, adultus olim,
Puris expatiabitur genarum
Campis imperiosior Cupido;
O quàm certa superbiore pennâ
Ibunt spicula, melleæque mortes,
Exultantibus hinc & inde turmis,
Quoquò jusseris, impigrè volabunt!
ŏ
quot
De te vulnera delicata discent!
O quot pectora Principum magistris
Fient molle negotium sagittis !
Nam quæ non poteris per arma ferri,
Cui matris sinus atque utrumque sidus
Magnorum patet officina Amorum?
Hinc sumas licet, ô puella Princeps,
Quantacunque opus est tibi pharetrâ.
Centum sume Cupidines ab uno
Matris lumine, Gratiásque centum,
Et centum Veneres: adhuc manebunt
Centum mille Cupidines; manebunt
Ter centum Veneresque Gratiæque
Puro fonte superstites per ævum.

corda calentium deorum