Her beauty too had perish'd, and her fame,
Had not the Mufe redeem'd them from the flame.
AT PENS HURST.
WHILE in the park I fing, the liftening deer
Attend my paffion, and forget to fear :
When to the beeches I report my flame,
They bow their heads, as if they felt the fame :
To Gods appealing, when I reach their Bowers
With loud complaints, they answer me in showers.
To Thee a wild and cruel foul is given,
More deaf than trees, and prouder than the heaven !
Love's foe profefs'd! why doft thou falsly feign
Thyself a Sidney? from which noble strain
*He fprung, that could so far exalt the name
Of Love, and warm our nation with his flame;
That all we can of love or high defire,
Seems but the smoke of amorous Sidney's fire.
Nor call her mother, who fo well does prove
One breast may hold both chastity and love.
Never can she, that so exceeds the spring
In joy and bounty, be suppos'd to bring
One fo deftructive: to no human ftock
We owe this fierce unkindness; but the rock
That cloven rock produc'd thee, by whose side
Nature, to recompence the fatal pride
Of such stern beauty, plac'd those † healing springs;
Which not more help, than that deftruction brings.
Sir Philip Sidney, + Tunbridge-Wells.
Thy heart no ruder than the rugged stone,
I might, like Orpheus, with my numerous moan
Melt to compaffion: now, my traiterous song
With thee confpires, to do the finger wrong:
While thus I fuffer not myself to lose
The memory of what augments my woes:
But with my own breath still foment the fire,
Which flames as high as fancy can aspire!
This laft complaint th' indulgent ears did pierce
Of just Apollo, president of verse;
Highly concerned that the Muse should bring
Damage to one, whom he had taught to fing;
Thus he advis'd me: "On yon aged tree
"Hang up thy lute, and hie thee to the fea;
"That there with wonders thy diverted mind
"Some truce at least may with this paffion find."
Ah cruel Nymph! from whom her humble swain
Flies for relief unto the raging Main;
And from the winds and tempefts does expect
A milder fate, than from her cold neglect !
Yet there he 'll pray, that the unkind may prove
Bleft in her choice; and vows this endless love
Springs from no hope of what she can confer,
But from thofe gifts which Heaven has heap'd on her.
To my young Lady LUCY SIDNEY.
HY came I fo untimely forth
Into a world, which, wanting thee,
Could entertain us with no worth,
Or fhadow of felicity?
That time should me fo far remove
From that which I was born to love!
Yet, faireft bloffom! do not flight
That age which you may know so foon: The rofy morn refigns her light,
And milder glory, to the noon :
And then what wonders fhall
you do, Whofe dawning beauty warms us fo?
Hope waits upon the flowery prime ;`
And fummer, though it be lefs gay,
Yet is not look'd on as a time
Of declination, or decay:
For, with a full hand, that does bring
All that was promis'd by the spring.
TO AMORET.
FAIR! that you may truly know
What you unto Thyrfis awe;
I will tell you how I do
Sachariffa love, and You.
If fweet Amoret complains,
I have sense of all her pains :
But for Sachariffa I
Do not only grieve, but die.
All that of myself is mine,
Lovely Amoret! is thine,
Sacharifla's captive fain
Would untie his iron chain;
And, thofe fcorching beams to fhun,
To thy gentle shadow run.
If the foul had free election
To difpofe of her affection;
I would not thus long have borne
Haughty Sacharissa's scorn :
But 'tis fure fome Power above,
Which controls our wills in love!
If not a love, a strong defire
To create and fpread that fire
In my breaft, follicits me,
Beauteous Amoret! for thee.
'Tis amazement more than love,
Which her radiant eyes do move :
If lefs fplendor wait on thine,
Yet they fo benignly shine,
I would turn my dazzled fight
To behold their milder light.
But as hard 'tis to destroy
That high flame, as to enjoy:
Which how eas❜ly I may do,
Heaven (as eas❜ly fcal'd) does know !
Amoret! as fweet and good
As the most delicious food,
Which, but tafted, does impart
Life and gladness to the heart.
Sacharifla's beauty 's wine,
Which to madness doth incline:
Such a liquor, as no brain
That is mortal can fuftain.
Scarce can I to heaven excufe
The devotion, which I use
Unto that adored dame:
For 'tis not unlike the fame,
Which I thither ought to fend.
So that if it could take end,
'Twould to heaven itself be due,
To fucceed her, and not you:
Who already have of me
All that 's not idolatry:
Which, though not fo fierce a flame,
Is longer like to be the fame.
Then fmile on me, and I will prove, Wonder is shorter-liv'd than love.
|