TO VAN DYCK.
RARE Artifan! whose pencil moves Not our delights alone, but loves; From thy shop of Beauty we
Slaves return'd that enter'd free.
The heedlefs lover does not know
Whofe eyes they are that wound him fo; Bat, 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 defpair 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 fireh bapa Not the form alone, and grace,
But act and power of a face, May'st thou yet thyfelf as well, As all the world befides, excel!
That the great Ajax Telamon Refus'd to live without the prize) Those Achive peers did more engage Than the the gallants of our age.
That beam of beauty which begun
To warm us fo when thou wert here, Now fcorches like the raging fun, When Sirius does first appear. O fix this flame and let despair
Redeem the reft from endless care.
SERVANT TO SACHARISSA.
FAIR Fellow-fervant! may your gentle ear Prove more propitious to my flighted care Than the bright dame's we ferve: for her relief (Vex'd with the long expreffions of my grief) Receive thefe plaints; nor will her high disdain Forbid by humble Muse to court her train.
So, in those nations which the fun adore, Some modeft Perfian, or fonte weak-ey'd Moor, No higher dares advance his dazzled sight, Than to fome gilded cloud, which near the light 10 Of their afcending god adorns the Eaft,
And, graced with his beams, outshines the reft.
Thy fkilful hand contributes to our wo, And whets thofe arrows which confound us fo. A thousand Cupids in thofe curls do fit (Those curious nets!) thy flender fingers knit, The Graces put not more exactly on Th' attire of Venus when the Ball the Than Sachariffa by thy care is drest,
When all our youth prefers her to the reft. You the foft season know when best her mind
May be to pity or to love inclin'd: La fome well-chofen hour supply his fear, Whose hopeless love durft never tempt the ear Of that ftern goddess. You, her priest, declare What off'rings may propitiate the fair:
Rich orient pearl, bright stones that ne'er decay, Or polish'd lines, which longer last than they : For if I thought she took delight in those,
To where the cheerful Morn does first disclose, 30 (The fhady Night removing with her beams) Wing'd with bold love I'd fly to fetch fuch gems. But fince her eyes, her teeth, her hip, excels All that is found in mines or fifhes' fhells, Her nobler part as far exceeding thefe,
None but immortal gifts her mind fhould pleafe. The fhining jewels Greece and Troy bestow'd On Sparta's Queen *, her lovely neck did load, And fnowy wrifts; but when the town was burn'd, Thofe fading glories were to ashes turn'd:
Her beauty, too, had perish'd, and her fame,
Had not the Muse redeem'd them from the flame.4✩
TO MY YOUNG LADY LUCY SIDNEY.
WHY came I fo untimely forth
Into a world which, wanting thee,
Could entertain us with no worth Or fhadow of felicity?
That time should me so far remove!". From that which I was born to love!
Yet, fairest Blöffom! do not flight That age which you may know fo foon: The rofy Morn refigns her light
And milder glory to the Noon : And then what wonders fhall you do, Whose dawning beauty warms us fo?
Hope waits upon the flow'ry prime; ? And summer, tho' it be less gay,
Yet is not look'd on as a time.
Of declination or decay :
For with a full hand that does bring All that was premis'd by the spring.
TO AMORET.
FAIR! that you may truly know What you unto Thryfis owe, I will tell you how I do Sachariffa love and you.
Joy falutes me when I fet My bleft eyes on Amoret; But with wonder I am ftrook, While I on the other look.
If fweet Amoret complains, I have fenfe of all her pains; But for Sachariffa I
Do not only grieve, but die. All that of myfelf is mine, Lovely Amoret! is thine : Sachariffa's captive fain
Would untie his iron chain,
And thofe fcorching beams to fhun,
To thy gentle fhadow run.
If the foul had free election To difpofe of her affection, I would not thus long have borne Haughty Sachariffa's scorn: But 't is fure fome pow'r above, Which controls our wills in love!
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