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AIREST thing that fhines below,
Why in this robe doft thou appear ·
Would't thou a. white moft perfect show,
Thou must at all no garment wear :
Thou wilt seem much whiter fo,
Than winter when 'tis clad with fnow.
'Tis not the linen fhews fo fair;
Her skin shines through, and makes it bright
So clouds themselves like funs appear,
When the fun pierces them with light:
So, lilies in a glafs inclose,
The glafs will feem as white as those.
Thou now one heap of beauty art;,
Nought outwards, or within, is foul:
Condensed beams make every part;
Thy body's cloathed like thy foul;
Thy soul, which does itself display,.
Like a ftar plac'd i' th' milky-way.
Such robes the faints departed wear,
Woven all with light divine;
Such their exalted bodies are,
And with fuch full glory fhine :
But they regard not mortals' pain;
Men pray, I fear, to both in vain.
Yet, feeing thee fo gently pure,
My hopes will needs continue still;
Thou would't not take this garment, fure,
When thou hadst an intent to kill!
Of peace and yielding who would doubt,
When the white flag he fees hung out?
LEAVING ME, AND THEN LOVING MANY.
O men, who once have caft the truth away,
Forfook by God, do ftrange wild lufts obey;
So the vain Gentiles, when they left t' adore
One Deity, could not stop at thousands more :
Their zeal was fenfeless strait, and boundless, grown;
They worship'd many a beast and many a stone.
Ah, fair apoftate! couldst thou think to flee
From Truth and Goodness, yet keep unity?
I reign'd alone; and my bleft felf could call
The univerfal monarch of her all.
Mine, mine, her fair Eaft-Indies were above,
Where those funs rife that chear the world of Love ;
Where beauties fhine like gems of richest price;
Where coral grows, and every breath is spice :
Mine too her rich Weft-Indies were below,
Where mines of gold and endless treasures grow.
But, as when the Pellaan conqueror dy'd,
Many fmall princes did his crown divide;
So, fince my love his vanquish'd world forfook,
Murder'd by poifons from her falsehood took,
An hundred petty kings claim each their part,
And rend that glorious empire of her heart.
ER body is fo gently bright,
Clear and tranfparent to the fight
(Clear as fair crystal to the view,
Yet foft as that, ere stone it grew)
That through her flesh, methinks, is feen
The brighter foul that dwells within:
Our eyes the subtile covering pass,
And fee that lily through its glass.
I through her breast her heart espy,
As fouls in hearts do fouls defcry:
I fee 't with gentle motions beat;
I fee light in 't, but find no heat.
Within, like angels in the sky,
A thousand gilded thoughts do fly;
Thoughts of bright and nobleft kind,
Fair and chafte as mother-mind.
But oh! what other heart is there,
Which fighs and crouds to her's so near ?
'Tis all on flame, and does, like fire,
To that, as to its heaven, afpire !
The wounds are many in 't and deep;
Still does it bleed, and still does weep!
Whofe-ever wretched heart it be,
I cannot choose but grieve to fee:
What pity in my breaft does reign!
Methinks I feel too all its pain.
So torn, and fo defac'd, it lies,
That it could ne'er be known by th' eyes;
But oh! at lat I heard it groan,
And knew by th' voice that 'twas mine own.
So poor Alcione, when fhe faw
A fhipwreck'd body tow'rds her draw,
Beat by the waves, let fall a tear,
Which only then did pity wear :
But, when the corpse on shore were cast,
Which flie her husband found at laft,
What should the wretched widow do?
Grief chang'd her ftrait; away fhe flew,
Turn'd to a bird and fo at last shall I
Both from my murder'd heart and murderer fly.
ANSWER TO THE PLATONICKS.
angels love; fo let them love for
When I'm all foul, fuch fhall my love too be:
Who nothing here but like a fpirit would do,
In a fhort time, believe 't, will be one too.
But, fhall our love do what in beafts we fee?
Ev'n beafts eat too, but not fo well as we:
And you as juftly might in thirst refuse
The ufe of wine, because beafts water use :
They taste those pleasures as they do their food;
Undress'd they take, 't, devour it raw and crude :
But to us men, Love cooks it at his fire,
And adds the poignant fauce of sharp defire.
Beafts do the fame: 'tis true; but ancient Fame.
Says, Gods themselves turn'd beasts to do the fame.
The Thunderer, who, without the female bed,
Could Goddeffes bring-forth from out his head,
Chofe rather mortals this way to create;
So much he' esteem'd his pleasure 'bove his state.
Ye talk of fires which fhine, but never burn;
In this cold world they 'll hardly ferve our turn;
As useless to despairing lovers grown,
As lambent flames to men i' th' frigid zone.
The fun does his pure fires on earth bestow
With nuptial warmth, to bring-forth things below;
Such is Love's nobleft and divineft heat,
That warms like his, and does, like his, beget.
call this; a name to your's more just,
If an inordinate defire be luft:
Pygmalion, loving what none can enjoy,
More luftful was, than the hot youth of Troy.
Loving one first becaufe fhe could love Nobody, afterwards loving her with Defire.
WHAT new-found witchcraft was in thee,
With thine own cold to kindle me ?
Strange art! like him that should devise
To make a burning-glafs of ice :
When winter fo, the plants would harm,
Her fnow itself does keep them warm.