Allayes the heat and burnings of a Land:
Religion guides it, and all the tract,
Designes so twist, that heav'n confirms the act;
If from these lists you wander as you steere,
Look back, and catechise your actions here;
These are the marks to which true states-men
And greatness here with goodness hath one end.
TO MY WORTHY FRIEND MASTER
T. LEWES.1
EES not my friend, what a deep snow
Candies our countrie's woody brow?
The yeelding branch his load scarse
bears
Opprest with snow, and frozen tears;
While the dumb rivers slowly float,
All bound up in an icie coat.
Let us meet then! and while this world
In wild excentricks now is hurld,
Keep wee, like nature, the same key,
And walk in our forefathers way;
Why any more cast wee an eye
1 Probably of Maesmawr (= large field) opposite Lower Newton on the south side of the river Usk. G.
On what may come, not what is nigh?
Why vex our selves with feare, or hope
And cares beyond our horoscope?
Who into future times would peere
Looks oft beyond his terme set here,
And cannot goe into those grounds
But through a church-yard, which them
bounds;
Sorrows and sighes and searches spend
And draw our bottome to an end,
But discreet joyes lengthen the lease,
Without which life were a disease;
And who this age a mourner goes,
Doth with his tears but feed his foes.
TO THE MOST EXCELLENTLY ACCOM-
PLISH'D, MRS. K. PHILIPS.1
AY wittie faire one, from what sphere
Flow these rich numbers you shed
here?
For sure such incantations come
From thence, which strike your readers dumbe.
A strain, whose measures gently meet
1 The famous 'Orinda': see our Essay in the present volume. G.
Like virgin-lovers or Time's feet:
Where language smiles, and accents rise
As quick, and pleasing as your eyes:
The poem smooth, and in each line
Soft as your selfe, yet masculine;
Where no1 coorse trifles blot the page
With matter borrow'd from the age,
But thoughts as innocent, and high
As angels have, or saints that dye.
These raptures when I first did see
New miracles in poetrie,
And by a hand their god2 would misse
His bayes and fountaines but to kisse;
My weaker genius-crosse to fashion-
Slept in a silent admiration:
A rescue, by whose grave disguise
Pretenders oft have past for wise;
And yet as pilgrims humbly touch
Those shrines to which they bow so much,
And clouds in courtship flock, and run
To be the mask unto the sun,
So I concluded, it was true
I might at distance worship you,
A Persian votarie, and say
1 Misprinted 'not', but marked in errata 'no'. G. * Misprinted 'good', but marked in errata 'god', viz. Apollo. G.
It was your light shew'd me the way.
So loadstones guide the duller steele,
And high perfections are the wheele
Which moves the lesse, for gifts divine
Are strung upon a vitall line,
Which touch'd by you, excites in all
Affections epidemicall.
And this made me,- -a truth most fit-
Adde my weake eccho to your wit;
Which pardon, Lady, for assayes
Obscure as these might blast your bayes;
As common hands soyle flowres, and make
That dew they weare, weepe their mistake.
But I'le wash off the staine, and vow
No lawrel growes, but for your brow.
AN EPITAPH UPON THE LADY ELIZA-
BETH, SECOND DAUGHTER TO HIS
LATE MAJESTIE.1
OUTH, beauty, vertue, innocence,
Heav'ns royall, and select expence,
With virgin-teares, and sighs divine
1 Viz. of Charles Ist. She was born 28th December, 1635, and after her father's death was confined in Carisbrook Castle, Isle of Wight, where she died 8th September, 1650. G.
See here the genii of this shrine;
Where now-thy faire soule wing'd away,-
They guard the casket where she lay.
Thou hadst, e'r thou the light couldst see, Sorrowes layd up, and stor❜d for thee;
Thou suck'dst in woes, and the brests lent
Their milke to thee, but to lament;
Thy portion here was griefe, thy years
Distill'd no other rain, but tears,
Tears without noise, but-understood―
As lowd, and shrill as any bloud;
Thou seem'st a rose-bud born in snow,
A flowre of purpose sprung to bow
To headless tempests, and the rage
Of an incensed, stormie age.
Others, e're their afflictions grow,
Are tim'd, and season'd for the blow,
But thine, as rhumes1 the tend'rest part,
Fell on a young and harmless heart.
And yet as balm-trees gently spend
Their tears for those, that do them rend,
So mild and pious thou wert seen,
Though full of suffrings; free from spleen,
Thou didst not murmure, nor revile,
And drank'st thy wormwood with a smile.
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