Thy body, in my verse enshrin'd,
Shall grow immortal as thy mind.
I'll fix thy title next in fame
To Sachariffa's well-fung name.
So faithfully will I declare
What all thy wondrous beauties are,
That when, at the last great affize,
All women shall together rife,
Men ftrait fhall caft their eyes on thee,
And know at firft that thou art fhe.
you be absent here, I needs must fay
The trees as beauteous are, and flowers as gay,
As ever they were wont to be;
Nay, the birds' rural mufick too
Is as melodious and free,
As if they fung to pleasure you :
I faw a rofe-bud ope this morn-I 'll swear
The blushing morning open'd not more fair.
How could it be so fair, and you away?
How could the trees be beauteous, flowers fo gay?
Could they remember but last year,
How you did them, they you, delight,
The sprouting leaves which faw you here,
And call'd their fellows to the fight,
Would, looking round for the fame fight in vain,
Creep back into their filent barks again.
Where'er you walk'd, trees were as reverend made,
As when of old Gods dwelt in every fhade.
Is 't poffible they should not know,
What lofs of honour they sustain
That thus they fmile and flourish now,
-And still their former pride retain ?
Dull creatures! 'tis not without cause that she
Who fled the God of Wit, was made a tree.
In ancient times, fure, they much wiser were,
When they rejoic'd the Thracian verse to hear;
In vain did Nature bid them stay,
When Orpheus had his fong begun
They call'd their wondering roots away,
And bade them filent to him run.
How would those learned trees have follow'd you!
You would have drawn them and their poet too.
But who can blame them now? for, fince you 're gone,
They 're here the only fair, and shine alone;
You did their natural rights invade;
Wherever you did walk or fit,
The thickest boughs could make no shade,
Although the fun had granted it :
The fairest flowers could please no more, near you,
Than painted flowers, fet next to them, could do.
Whene'er then you come hither, that shall be
The time, which this to others is, to me.
The little joys which here are now,
The name of punishments do bear;
When by their fight they let us know
How we depriv'd of greater are :
'Tis you the best of seasons with you bring; This is for beafts, and that for men, the Spring.
JUICE OF LEMON.
WHILST what I write I do not fee,
I dare thus, ev'n to you, write poetry. Ah, foolish Muse! which doft fo high aspire, And know'ft her judgment well,
How much it does thy power excel,
Yet dar'ft be read by, thy juft doom, the fire.
Alas! thou think'ft thyself fecure,
Because thy form is innocent and pure:
Like hypocrites, which feem unspotted here;
But, when they fadly come to die,
And the last fire their truth must try,
Scrawl'd o'er like thee, and blotted, they appear.
Go then, but reverently go,
And, fince thou needs muft fin, confefs it too Confefs 't, and with humility clothe thy fhame; For thou, who elfe muft burned be
An heretick, if fhe pardon thee,
May'st like a martyr then enjoy the flame.
But, if her wifdom grow fevere,
And fuffer not her goodness to be there;
If her large mercies cruelly' it restrain ;
Be not difcourag'd, but require
A more gentle ordeal fire,
And bid her by Love's flames read it again.
Strange power of heat! thou yet doft show
Like winter-earth, naked or cloath'd with fnow:
But as, the quickening fun approaching near,
The plants arife up by degrees;
A fudden paint adorns the trees,
And all kind Nature's characters appear.
So, nothing yet in thee is feen;
But, when a genial heat warms thee within, A new-born wood of various lines there
Here buds an A, and there a B,
Here fprouts a V, and there a T,
And all the flourishing letters stand in rows.
Still, filly paper! thou wilt think
That all this might as well be writ with ink :
Oh, no; there's sense in this, and mystery-
Thou now may'st change thy author's name,
And to her hand lay noble claim
For, as she reads, she makes, the words in thee.
Yet-if thine own unworthiness
Will still that thou art mine, not her's, confefs -
Confume thyfelf with fire before her eyes,
And fo her grace or pity move :
The gods, though beasts they do not love,
Yet like them when they 're burnt in facrifice.
IVE years ago (fays Story) I lov'd you,
For which you call me most inconstant now;
Pardon me, Madam! you mistake the man,
For I am not the fame that I was then;
No flesh is now the fame 'twas then in me;
And that my mind is chang'd, yourself may fee.
The fame thoughts to retain ftill, and intents,
Were more inconftant far; for accidents
Muft of all things moft ftrangely' inconftant prove,
If from one subject they t' another move;
My members then the father-members were
From whence these take their birth which now are here.
If then this body love what th' other did,
'Twere inceft; which by Nature is forbid.
You might as well this day inconftant name,
Because the weather is not ftill the fame
That it was yesterday—or blame the year,
'Cause the spring flowers, and autumn fruit, does bear.
The world's a fcene of changes; and to be
Conftant, in Nature were inconftancy;
For 'twere to break the laws herself has made :
Our fubftances themfelves do fleet and fade ;
The most fix'd being ftill does move and fly,
Swift as the wings of time 'tis meafur'd by.
T'imagine then that Love should never cease
(Love, which is but the ornament of these)
Were quite as fenfelefs, as to wonder why
Beauty and colour stays not when we die.
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