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To melt the marble ice that still doth hold
ASK me no more-where Jove bestows,
When June is past, the fading rose?
Ask me no more-whither do stray
Ask me no more-where those Stars light,
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!
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;
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!
THE DESCRIPTION OF CASTARA.
Prospers in some happy shade,
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 ;
For she blushes in her place;
Whilst wild passions captive lie;
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
With no fresh charm of beauty took,
Not idly wandering here and there,
Aiming each beauteous mark to hit;
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;
You're not worth the serious part.
When I sigh and kiss your hand,
When I eye your curl or lace,
Straight some marder doth commit;
When I talk to shew my wit.
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!