Clouds are sent up on wings of thyme,
Amber, pomgranates, jessamine,
And through our earthern conduits sore
Higher than altars fum'd before.
So drench'd we our oppressing cares,
And chok'd the wide jaws of our fears,
Whilst ravish'd thus we did devise
If this were not a Paradise
In all, except these harmless sins;
Behold! flew in two cherubins
Clear as the sky from whence they came,
And brighter than the sacred flame:
The boy adorn'd with modesty,
Yet armed so with majesty,
That if the thund'rer again
His eagle sends she stoops in vain;
Besides his innocence he took
A sword and casquet, and did look
Like Love in arms; he wrote but five,
Yet spake eighteen, each grace did strive
And twenty cupids thronged forth,
Who first should show his prettier worth.
But oh, the nymph! did you e'er know
Carnation mingled with snow?
Or have you seen the lightning shroud,
And straight break through th' opposing cloud?
So ran her blood such was its hue;
So through her veil her bright hair flew,
And yet its glory did appear
But thin, because her eyes were near.
Blooming boy, and blossoming maid,
May your fair sprigs be ne'er betray'd
To eating worm, or fouler storm;
No serpent lurk to do them harm;
No sharp frost cut, no north-wind tear,
The verdure of that fragrant hair;
But may the sun and gentle weather,
When you are both grown ripe together,
Load you with fruit, such as your father
From you with all the joys doth gather;
And may you when one branch is dead
Graft such another in its stead,
Lasting thus ever in your prime
Till th' scythe is snatch'd away from Time.
AGAINST THE LOVE OF GREAT ONES.
UNHAPPY youth, betray'd by fate,
To such a love hath sainted hate,
And damned those celestial bonds
Are only knit with equal hands;
The love of great ones! 'Tis a love
Gods are incapable to prove;
For where there is a joy uneven
There never, never can be heav'n:
"Tis such a love as is not sent
To fiends as yet for punishment;
Ixion willingly doth feel
The gyre of his eternal wheel,
Nor would he now exchange his pain
For clouds and goddesses again.
Wouldst thou with tempests lie? then bow
To the rougher furrows of her brow;
Or make a thunder-bolt thy choice?
Then catch at her more fatal voice;
Or 'gender with the lightning? try
The subtler flashes of her eye :
Poor Semele well knew the same,
Who both embrac'd her god and flame;
And not alone in soul did buru
But in this love did ashes turn.
How ill doth majesty enjoy
The bow and gaiety of the boy,
As if the purple-robe should sit
And sentence give i'th' chair of wit.
Say, ever dying wretch, to whom Each answer is a certain doom, What is it that you would possess, The Countess, or the naked Bess?
If you mean her, the very her
Abstracted from her character;
Unhappy boy! you may as soon
With fawning wanton with the moon,
Or with an amorous complaint
Get prostitute your very saint;
Not that we are not mortal, or
Fly Venus' altars, or abhor
The self-same knack for which you pine;
But we (defend us!) are divine
Female, but madam-born, and come
From a right honourable womb:
Shall we then mingle with the base,
And bring a silver-tinsel race?
Whilst th' issue noble will not pass,
The gold allay'd, almost half brass,
And th' blood in each vein doth appear:
Part thick Boorein, part Lady Clear:
Like to the sordid insects sprung
From father sun, and mother dung;
Yet lose we not the hold we have,
But faster grasp the trembling slave;
Play at balloon with's heart, and wind
The strings like skeins, steal into his mind
Ten thousand hells, and feigned joys
Far worse than they, whilst like whipp'd boys,
After this scourge he's hush with toys.
This heard, sir, play still in her eyes,
And be a dying, lives, like flies
Caught by their angle-legs, and whom
The torch laughs piecemeal to consume.
PAYING HER OBSEQUIES TO THE CHASTE MEMORY OF MY DEAREST COUSIN
MRS. BOWES BARNE.
SEE! what an undisturbed tear
She weeps for her last sleep;
But viewing her straight wak'd a star,
She weeps that she did weep.
Grief ne'er before did tyrannize
On th' honour of that brow,
And at the wheels of her brave eyes
Was captive led till now.
Thus for a saint's apostacy
The unimagin'd woes,
And sorrows of the hierarchy,
None but an angel knows.
Thus for lost souls recovery,
The clapping of all wings,
And triumphs of this victory,
None but an angel sings.
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