Defert them fo, and for his fpoufe's fake, His vanifh'd love, tempt the Lethean lake. The ladies, too, the brightest of that time, (Ambitious all his lofty bed to climb) Their doubtful hopes with expectation feed, Who fhall the fair Eurydice fucceed: Eurydice! for whom his num'rous moan
Makes lift'ning trees and favage mountains groan : Thro' all the air his founding ftrings dilate Sorrow like that which touch'd our hearts of late. Your pining fickness, and your restless pain, At once the land affecting and the main, When the glad news that you were Admiral Scarce thro' the nation fpread, 't was fear'd by all That our great Charles, whose wisdom shines in you, Would be perplexed how to chufe a new.
So more than private was the joy and grief, That at the worst it gave our fouls relief,
That in our age such sense of virtue liv'd, They joy'd fo juftly, and so justly griev'd.
Nature (her faireft lights eclipfed) seems Herself to suffer in those sharp extremes;
While not from thine alone thy blood retires,
But from those cheeks which all the world admires. The stem thus threaten'd, and the sap in thee,
Droop all the branches of that noble tree!
Their beauty they, and we our love fufpend; Nought can our wishes, fave thy health, intend.
As lilies overcharg'd with rain, they bend
Their beauteous heads, and with high heav'n contend; Fold thee within their fnowy arms, and cry
He is too faultlefs and too young to die. So like immortals round about thee they Sit, that they fright approaching Death Who would not languish, by so fair a train To be lamented and restor❜d again?
Or, thus withheld, what hafty foul would go, Tho' to the bleft? O'er young Adonis fo
Fair Venus mourn'd, and with the precious show'r Of her warm tears cherifh'd the springing flow'r. The next fupport, fair hope of your great name, And fecond pillar of that noble frame, By lofs of thee would no advantage have, But step by step purfue thee to the grave. And now relentless Fate, about to end
The line which backward does fo far extend
That antique ftock, which still the world fupplies With bravest spirits and with brightest eyes,
Kind Phœbus, interpofing, bid me fay,
Such ftorms no more shall shake that houfe but they, Like Neptune, and his feaborn niece *, fhall be The fhining glories of the land and fea ;
With courage guard, and beauty warm, our age, And lovers fill with like poetick rage.
TO VAN DYCK.
RARE Artifan! whose pencil moves Not our delights alone, but loves; From thy fhop of Beauty we Slaves return'd that enter'd free. The heedlefs lover does not know
Whole eyes they are that wound him fo; But, confounded with thy art,
Inquires her name that has his heart.
Another, who did long refrain,
Feels his old wound bleed fresh again With dear remembrance of that face, Where now he reads new hope of grace:
Nor fcorn nor cruelty does find,
But gladly fuffers a falfe wind To blow the afhes of despair From the reviving brand of care. Fool! that forgets her stubborn look This foftness from thy finger took.
Strange! that thy hand should not inspire The beauty only, but the fire: Not the form alone, and grace, But act and power of a face. May'ft thou yet thyfelf as well, As all the world befides, excel!
th' unfeigned truth rehearse, (That I may make it live in verfe) Why thou couldst not at one effay, That face to aftertimes convey, Which this admires. Was it thy wit To make her oft' before thee fit? Confefs, and we'll forgive thee this; For who would not repeat that bliss? And frequent fight of such a dame Buy with the hazard of his fame? Yet who can tax thy blameless skill, Tho' thy good hand had failed still,
When Nature's self so often errs?
She for this many thousand years
Seems to have practis'd with much care, To frame the race of women fair; Yet never could a perfect birth Produce before to grace the earth, Which waxed old ere it could fee Her that amaz'd thy art and thee.
But now 'tis done, O let me know
Where thofe immortal colours grow That could this deathless piece compose! In lilies? or the fading rofe?
No; for this theft thou hast climb'd higher Than did Prometheus for his fire.
TO MY LORD OF LEICESTER.
Not that thy trees at Penshurt groan, Oppreffed with their timely load,
And feem to make their filent moan, That their great Lord is now abroad: They to delight his taste or eye Would spend themselves in fruit, and die.
Not that thy harmless deer repine, And think themselves unjustly flain By any other hand than thine, Whofe arrows they would gladly ftain; No, nor thy friends, which hold too dear That peace
with France which keeps thee there.
All these are lefs than that great cause Which now exacts your prefence here, Wherein there meet the divers laws Of publick and domestick care,
For one bright nymph our youth contends, And on your prudent choice depends.
Not the bright fhield of Thetis' fon*, (For which fuch stern debate did rise,
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