394. 395. THOMAS STANLEY The Relapse TURN away those cruel eyes, Or death, in such a bright disguise, Punish their blind and impious pride, 1625-1678 Thy name, and seal'd thy story. Lovers will doubt thou canst entice No other for thy fuel, And if thou burn one victim twice, THOMAS D'URFEY Chloe Divine 1653-1723 CHLOE's a Nymph in flowery groves, A Nereid in the streams; Saint-like she in the temple moves, Love steals artillery from her eyes, The Graces point her charms; Orpheus is rivall'd in her voice, 396. Never so happily in one Did heaven and earth combine: CHARLES COTTON To Cælia WHEN, Cœlia, must my old day set, And my young morning rise In beams of joy so bright as yet My state is more advanced than when I sued to be a servant then, But now to be made free. I've served my time faithful and true, In happy freedom, as my due, A scandal to love's power, Yet think not, sweet, I'm weary grown, That I pretend such haste; Since none to surfeit e'er was known Before he had a taste: My infant love could humbly wait 1630-1687 KATHERINE PHILIPS (ORINDA') 397. To One persuading a Lady to Marriage 1631-1664 FORBEAR, bold youth; all's heaven here, To others courtship may appear, 'Tis sacrilege to her. She is a public deity; And were't not very odd First make the sun in private shine In compliment to you: Think how you did amiss To strive to fix her beams which are JOHN DRYDEN 398. Ode 1631-1700 To the Pious Memory of the accomplished young lady, Mrs. Anne THOU youngest virgin-daughter of the skies, Rich with immortal green above the rest: Thou tread'st with seraphims the vast abyss: But such as thy own voice did practise here, If by traduction came thy mind, A soul so charming from a stock so good; Was form'd at first with myriads more, Who Greek or Latin laurels wore, And was that Sappho last, which once it was before. If so, then cease thy flight, O heaven-born mind! Thou hast no dross to purge from thy rich ore : Nor can thy soul a fairer mansion find, Than was the beauteous frame she left behind : Return, to fill or mend the quire of thy celestial kind. May we presume to say, that, at thy birth, New joy was sprung in heaven as well as here on earth? Strung each his lyre, and tun'd it high, Might know a poetess was born on earth; And then, if ever, mortal ears Had heard the music of the spheres. And if no clust'ring swarm of bees On thy sweet mouth distill'd their golden dew, 'Twas that such vulgar miraclès Heaven had not leisure to renew: For all the blest fraternity of love Solemniz'd there thy birth, and kept thy holiday above. O gracious God! how far have we (Nay, added fat pollutions of our own), To increase the streaming ordures of the stage? What can we say to excuse our second fall? Let this thy Vestal, Heaven, atone for all! Her Arethusian stream remains unsoil'd, |