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TO THE MORNING:
SATISFACTION FOR SLEEP.
WHAT succour can I hope my Muse shall send,
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
Twice dyed in thine own blushes! and didst run
His Lethe be my Helicon and see
If Morpheus have a Muse to wait on me.
No nimble rapture starts to Heaven, and brings
Marrow to my plump genius, make it live
Whose feet can walk the Milky Way, and choose
And trace Eternity-But all is dead,
Thrice will I pay three tears, to show how true
My grief is; so my wakeful lay shall knock
The early larks' shrill orisons, to be
An anthem at the Day's nativity.
And the same rosy-finger'd hand of thine,
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
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?
Bestow thy poppy upon wakeful Woe,
Sickness, and Sorrow, whose pale lids ne'er know
ON A FOUL MORNING, BEING THEN TO TAKE
WHERE art thou, Sol, while thus the blindfold Day
Stumbling on Night? Rouse thee, illustrious youth,
Say to the sullen Morn, thou com'st to court her;
He'll fan her bright locks, teaching them to flow,
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.
Fly, fly profane fogs, far hence fly away,
Taint not the pure streams of the springing Day,
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.
IN PRAISE OF LESSIUS'S RULE OF HEALTH.
Go now, with some daring drug,
Some big-named composition,
The oraculous doctors' mystic bills,
And what at length shalt get by these?
Go poor man, think what shall be
Remedy 'gainst thy remedy.
That which makes us have no need
Of physic, that's physic indeed.
Hark hither, Reader: wouldst thou see
Wouldst see a man all his own wealth,
A man, whose sober soul can tell
In Praise of Lessius's Rule of Health.
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?
Through which all her bright features shine?
A thin aërial veil is drawn,
Warm thoughts, free spirits, flattering
In sum, wouldst see a man that can
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 :
No quarrels, murmurs, no delay :
A kiss, a sigh, and so away?
This rare one, Reader, wouldst thou see,