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ON MY LADY ISABELLA PLAYING ON
SUCH moving founds, from fuch a careless touch!
So unconcern'd herself, and we so much!
What art is this, that, with fo little pains,
Transports us thus, and o're our spirit reigns?
The trembling ftrings about her fingers croud, 5
And tell their joy for every kifs aloud:
Small force there needs to make them tremble fo;
Touch'd by that hand, who would not tremble too?
Here Love takes stand, and, while she charms the
Empties his quiver on the listening deer:
Mufic fo foftens and difarms the minde,
That not an arrow does resistance finde.
Thus the fair tyrant celebrates the prize,
And acts herself the triumph of her eyes:
So Nero once, with harp in hand, furvay'd
His flaming Rome, and as it burnt he play'd.
FAIR hand! that can on virgin-paper write,
Yet from the stain of ink preserve it white;
Whofe travel o're that filver field does fhow
Like track of leveretts in morning fnow.
Love's image thus in pureft minds is wrought, 5
Without a spot, or blemish, to the thought.
Strange that your fingers fhould the pencil foyl,
Without the help of colours, or of oyl!
For, though a painter boughs and leaves can make,
'Tis you alone can make them bend and shake:
Whose breath falutes your new-created grove, 11
Like fouthern winds, and makes it gently move.
Orpheus could make the forreft dance; but you
Can make the motion, and the forreft too.
HENCE, loathed Melancholy!
Of Cerberus and blackest midnight born,
In Stygian cave forlorn,
'Mong ft horrid shapes, and fhreiks, and fights unholy; Find out fom uncouth cell,
Wher brooding Darkness spreads his jealous wings, And the night-raven fings;
There under ebon fhades, and low-brow'd rocks,
As ragged as thy locks,
In dark Cimmerian desert ever dwell.
But com thou goddess fair and free,
In heav'n ycleap'd Euphrosyne,
And by men, heart-eafing Mirth,
Whom lovely Venus, at a birth,
With two fifter Graces more,
To ivy-crowned Bacchus bore;
Or whether (as fom fager fing)
The frolick wind that breathes the spring,
Zephir, with Aurora playing,
As he met her once a maying,
Born 1608; dyed 1674
There on beds of violets blew,
And fresh-blown roses washt in dew,
Fill'd her with thee a daughter fair,
So buckfom, blith, and debonair.
Hafte thee nymph, and bring with thee
Jeft and youthful Jollity,
Quips and Cranks, and wanton Wiles,
Nods, and Becks, and wreathed Smiles,
Such as hang on Hebe's cheek,
And love to live in dimple fleek; 30
Sport that wrincled Care derides,
And Laughter holding both his fides.
Com, and trip it as you go
On the light fantastick toe,
And in thy right hand lead with thee 35
The mountain nymph, sweet Liberty;
And if I give thee honour due,
Mirth, admit me of thy crue,
To live with her, and live with thee,
In unreproved pleasures free;
To hear the lark begin his flight,
And finging startle the dull night,
From his watch-towre in the skies,
Till the dappled dawn doth rife;
Then to com, in fpight of forrow,
And at my window bid good morrow,
Through the fweet-briar, or the vine,
Or the twisted eglantine:
While the cock, with lively din,
Scatters the rear of darknes thin,
And to the ftack, or the barn dore,
Stoutly ftruts his dames before:
Oft lift'ning how the hounds and horn
Chearly roufe the flumbring Morn,
From the fide of fom hoar hill,
Through the high wood echoing fhrill.
Som time walking, not unseen,
By hedge-row elms, on hillocks green,
Right against the Eastern gate,
Where the great Sun begins his state, 60
Rob'd in flames, and amber light,
The clouds in thousand liveries dight;
While the plow-man, neer at hand,
Whistles ore the furrow'd land,
And the milk-maid fingeth blithe,
And the mower whets his fithe,
And every fhepherd tells his tale,
Under the hawthorn in the dale.
Streit mine eye hath caught new pleasures,
Whilst the lantskip round it measures, 70
Ruffet lawns, and fallows gray,
Where the nibling flocks do ftray;
Mountains, on whose barren breft
The labouring clouds do often reft;
Meadows trim with daifies pide,
Shallow brooks, and rivers wide.