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To melt the marble ice that still doth hold
Her heart congeal'd, and make her pity cold.
The ox, which lately did for shelter fly
Into the stall, doth now securely lie
In open fields; and love no more is made
By the fireside: but in the cooler shade
Amyntas now doth with his Chloris sleep,
Under a sycamore; and all things keep
Time with the Season.-Only she doth carry
June in her eyes; in her heart, Januáry!

ASK me no more-where Jove bestows,

When June is past, the fading rose?
For in your beauties' orient deep,
These flowers, as in their causes, sleep.

Ask me no more-whither do stray
The golden atoms of the Day;
For, in pure love, Heaven did prepare
Those powders to enrich your hair.
Ask me no more-whither doth haste
The Nightingale, when May is past;
For in your sweet-dividing throat
She winters, and keeps warm her note.

Ask me no more-where those Stars light,
That downwards fall in dead of night;
For in your eyes they sit, and there
Fixed become, as in their sphere.

Ask me no more-if east or west, The Phoenix builds her spicy nest; *For unto you, at last, she flies, And in your fragrant bosom dies!

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DEATH's FINAL CONQUEST. THE glories of our birth and state

Are shadows, not substantial things ; There is no armour against fate; Death lays his icy hands on kings.

Sceptre and crown

Must tumble down, And in the dust be equal made With the poor crooked scythe and spade. Some men with swords may reap the field,

And plant fresh laurels where they kill; But their strong nerves at last must yield; They tame but one another still,

Early or late,

They stoop to fate, And must give up their murmuring breath, When they, pale captives, creep to death. The garlands wither on your brow,

Then boast no more your mighty deeds ; Upon death's purple altar now, See where the victor victim bleeds.

All heads must come

To the cold tomb;
Only the actions of the just
Smell sweet, and blossom in the dust.


TO THE SUN. THOU art return?d, great Light, to that blest hour

In which I first, by marriage' sacred power, Join'd with Castara hearts; and as the same Thy lustre is as then, so is our flame: Which had increas'd, but that by love's decree Twas such at first-it ne'er could greater be ! But tell me, glorious Lamp! in thy survey Of things below thee, what did not decay By age to weakness ? I, since that, have seen The Rose bud forth and fade; the Tree grow green, And wither; and the beauty of the field With Winter wrinkled : even thyself dost yield Something to Time, and to the grave fall nigher: But Virtuous Love is one sweet, endless fire!

IKE the violet, which alone

Prospers in some happy shade,
My Castara lives unknown,

To no looser eye betray'd ; For she's to herself untrue, Who delights i'th' public view. Such is her beauty, as no arts

Have enrich'd with borrow'd grace ;
Her high birth no pride imparts,

For she blushes in her place;
Folly boasts a glorious blood-
She is noblest, being good.
She her throne makes reason climb,

Whilst wild passions captive lie;
And, each article of time,
Her pure thoughts to heaven fly.
All her vows religious be,
And her love she vows to me.



IVE me a heart, where no impure Disorder'd passions rage; Which jealousy doth not obscure, Nor vanity t' expence engage:* Nor woo'd to madness by quaint oaths, Or the fine rhetoric of cloaths, Which not the softness of the age To vice or folly doth incline: Give me that heart, Castarà, for 'tis thine.

Take thou a heart, where no new look
Provokes new appetite;

With no fresh charm of beauty took,
Or wanton stratagem of wit;

Not idly wandering here and there,
Led by an amorous eye or ear,

Aiming each beauteous mark to hit;
Which virtue doth to one confine :

Take thou that heart, Castara, for 'tis mine.


FINE young Folly, tho' you were

That fair beauty I did swear,

Yet you ne'er could touch my heart;
For we courtiers learn at school,
Only with your sex to fool-

You're not worth the serious part.

When I sigh and kiss your hand,
Cross my arms, and wond'ring stand,
Holding parley with your eye :
Then dilate on my desires,
Swear the sun ne'er shot such fires,
All is but a handsome lie.

When I eye your curl or lace,
Gentle soul, you think your face

Straight some marder doth commit;
And your virtue doth begin
To grow scrupulous of my sin,

When I talk to shew my wit.
Therefore, Madam, wear no cloud,
Nor to check my love grow proud,

For in sooth, I much do doubt 'Tis the powder on your hair, Not your breath, perfumes the air,

And your cloaths that set you out. Yet though truth has this confess'd, And I vow, I love in jest,

When I next begin to court, And protest an amorous flame, You will swear I in earnest am,

Bedlam ! this is pretty sport.

TO ROSES, IN THE BOSOM OF CASTARA. YE, blushing Virgins! happy are

In the chaste nunnery of her breasts; For he'd profane so chaste a fair,

Who e'er should call them Cupid's nests ! Transplanted thus, how bright ye grow!

How rich a perfume do ye yield! In some close garden, cowslips so

Are sweeter than in the open field. In those white cloysters live secure

From the rude blasts of wanton breath, Each hour more innocent and pure,

Till you shall wither into death., Then, that which living gave you room,

Your glorious sepulchre shall be ; There wants no marble for a tomb,

Whose breast hath marble been to me!

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