You might as well this day inconftant name,
Because the weather is not still the fame
That it was yesterday; or blame the year,
'Cause the spring flow'rs, and autumn fruit does
The world's a fcene of changes, and to be [bear.
Conftant, in Nature were inconftancy;

For 'twere to break the laws herself has made :
Our fubftances themselves do fleet and fade;
The most fix'd being still does move and fly,
Swift as the wings of Time 't is meafur'd by.
T'imagine then that love fhould never cease,
(Love, which is but the ornament of these)
Were quite as fenfeless as to wonder why
Beauty and colour stay not when we die.

Not fair.

Tis very true I thought you once as fair

As women in th' idea are:

Whatever here feems beauteous, feem'd to be
But a faint metaphor of thee:

But then (methought) there fomething fhin'd with-
Which caft this luftre o'er thy fkin;

Nor could I choose but count in the Sun's light
Which made this cloud apper fo bright;
But fince I knew thy falfehood and thy pride,
And all thy thousand faults befide,

A very Moor, methinks, plac'd near to thee,
White as his teeth would seem to be.
So men, they say, by Hell's delufions led,
Have ta'en a fuccubus to their bed,
Believe it fair, and themselves happy call,
Till the cleft foot discovers all;

[in

With me, alas! quite contrary it fares;
Darknefs and death lies in my weeping eyes,
Despair and palenefs in my face appears,
And grief and fear, Love's greatest enemies;
But, like the Perfian tyrant, Love within
Keeps his proud court, and ne'er is seen,

IV.

Oh! take my heart, and by that means you'll prove
Within, too, ftor'd enough of love :
Give me but your's, I'll by that change fo thrive,
That love in all my parts fhall live.
So pow'rful is this Change, it render can
My outside woman, and your infide man.

Clad all in white.

1.

FAIREST thing that fhines below,
Why in this robe doft thou appear?
Wouldst thou a white moft perfect shew,

They worship'd many a beaft, and many a ftone.
Ah fair Apoftate! couldst thou think to flee
From truth and goednefs, yet keep unity:
I reign'd alone; and my blefs'd felf could call
The univerfal monarch of her all.

Mine, mine her fair Eaft Indies were above,
Where thofe funs rife that cheer the world of love;
Where beauties fine like gems of richest price;
Where coral grows, and every breath is fpice:
Mine, too, her rich Weft Indies were below,
Where mines of gold and endless treafures grow.
But as when the Pellaan conqu'ror dy'd,
Many finall princes did his crown divide;
So, fince my love his vanquish'd world forfook,
Murder'd by poifons from her falfehood took,
An hundred petty kings claim each their part,
And rend that glorious empire of her heart.

My Heart difcovered.

HER body is fo gently bright, Clear and transparent to the fight,

(Clear as fair crystal to the view,
Yet foft as that, e'er ftone it grew)
That through her flesh, methinks, is feca
The brighter foul that dwells within:
Our eyes the fubtile covering pafs,
And fee that lily through its glafs,
I through her breast her heart eípy,
As fouls in hearts do fouls defcry;
I fee 't with gentle motions beat,
I fee light in't, but find no heat.
Within, like angels in the sky,
A thousand gilded thoughts do fly;
Thoughts of bright and noblest kind,
Fair and chafte as mother-mind;
But, oh what other heart is there,
Which fighs and crowds to her's fo near?
'Tis all on flame, and does like fire
To that, as to it's heav'n, afpire:
The wounds are many in 't, and deep;
Still does it bleed, and still does weep.
Whofever wretched heart it be,

I cannot choose but grieve to fee.
What pity in my breast does reign?
Methinks I feel, too, all its pain:
So torn, and fo defac'd, it lies,

That it could ne'er be known by th' cyes;
But, oh at laft I heard it groan,

And knew by th' veice that 't was mine own.

So poor Alcione, when the faw

A fhipwreck'd body tow'rds her draw,
Beat by the waves, let fall a tear,
Which only then did pity wear;

But when the corps on fhore were caft,
Which the her husband found at last,
What should the wretched widow do?
Grief chang'd her ftraight; away fhe flew,
Turn'd to a bird; and fo at last shall I,
Both from my murder'd heart and murderer flɲ.

Anfier to the Platonics.

So angels love: fo let them love for me;
When I'm all foul, fuch fhall my love, too, be.
Who nothing here but like a fp'rit would do,
In a fhort time (believe it) will be one too.
But fhall our love do what in beafts we fee?
Ev'n beafts eat too, but not fo well as we.
And you as juftly might in thirft refuse
The ufe of wine, because beafts water ufe :
They taste thofe pleafures as they do their food;
Undrefs'd they take it, devour it raw and crude ?
But to us men Love cooks it at his fire,
And adds the poignant fauce of fharp defire.
Beafts do the fame; 't is true; but ancient Fame
Says, gods themselves turn'd beasts to do the fame.
The Thund'rer, who, without the female bed,
Could goddeffes bring forth from out his head,
Chofe rather mortals this way to create,
So much h' efteem'd his pleafure 'bove his ftate.
Ye talk of fires which fhine, but never burn;
In this cold world they'll hardly serve our turn;
As ufelefs to cefpairing levers grown,
As lambent flames to men i' th' Frigid Zone.

The Sun does his pure fires on earth beftow
With nuptial warmth, to bring forth things below:
Such is Love's nobleft and divineft heat,
That warms like his, and does, like his, beget.
Luft you call this; a name to your's more just,
If an inordinate defire be luft.

Pygmalion, loving what none can enjoy,
More luftful was than the hot youth of Troy.

The vain-love. Loving one first, because she could love nobody, afterwards loving her with dejire.

WHAT new-found witchcraft was in thee,
With thine own cold to kindle me?
Strange art like him that should devife
To make a burning glafs of ice:
When Winter fo the plants would harm,
Her fnow itfelf does keep them warm.
Fool that I was who having found
A rich and funny diamond,
Admir'd the hardness of the ftone,
But not the light with which it fhone.
Your brave and haughty scorn at ail
Was ftately and monarchical:
All gentleness, with that esteem'd,
A dull and flavifh virtue feem'd:
Shouldst thou have yielded then to me,
Thou'dft loft what I most lov'd in thee;
For who would ferve one whom he fees
That he can conquer if he please?
It far'd with me as if a flave

In triumph led, that does perceive
With what a gay majestic pride

His conqu'ror through the streets does ride,
Should be contented with his wo,
Which makes up fuch a comely fhew.
I fought not from thee a return,
But without hopes or fears did burn;
My cov'tous pallion did approve
The hoarding up, not ufe, of love.
My love a kind of dream was grown,
A foolish, but a pleasant one;

From which I'm waken'd now, but, oh!
Prifoners to die are waken'd fo:
For now th' effects of loving are
Nothing but longings with defpair :
Defpair, whofe torments no men, fure,
But lovers, and the damn'd, endure.
Her fcorn I doted once upon,
Ill object for affection;

But fince, alas! too much 'tis prov'd
That yet 't was fomething that I lov'd:
Now my defires are worse, and fly
At any impoffibility:

Defires which, whilst fo high they foar,
Are proud as that I lov'd before.
What lover can like me complain,
Who first lov'd vainly, next in vain ?

The Soul.

I.

Ir mine eyes do e'er declare

They 'ave feen a fecond thing that's fair; Or cars that they have mufic found, Befides thy voice, in any found;

If my tafte do ever meet,

After thy kifs with ought that's fwcet;
If my abused touch allow

Ought to be fmooth or foft but you;
If what feasonable fprings,
Or the eastern fummer brings,
Do my fmell perfuade at all

Ought perfume but thy breath to call;
If all my fenfes objects be

Not contracted into thee,

And fo through thec more pow'rful país,
As beams do through a burning-glafs;
If all things that in Nature are
Either foft, or fweet, or fair,
Be not in thee fo' epitomiz'd,

That nought material's not compris'd,
May I as worthlefs feem to thee,
As all but thou appear to me.

If I ever anger know,

11.

Till fome wrong be done to you;
If gods or kings my envy move,

Without their crowns, crown'd by thy love
If ever I an hope admit,

Without thy image ftamp'd on it,

Or any fear, till I begin

To find that you're concern'd therein;
If a joy e'er come to me,

That taftes of any thing but thee;

If any forrow touch my mind

Whilst you are well, and not unkind;
If I a minute's space debate,

Whether I fhall curfe and hate

The things beneath thy hatred fall,
Though all the world, myself and all;
And for love, if ever I

Approach to it again so nigh
As to allow a toleration

To the leaft glimm'ring inclination;

If thou alone doft not control

All thofe tyrants of my foul,
And to thy beauties ty'ft them fo,
That conftant they as habits grow;

If any paflion of my heart,

By any force, or any art,

Be brought to move one step from thee,
May't thou no paflion have for me.

III.

If my bufy imagination
Do not thee in all things fashion
So, that all fair species be
Hieroglyphic marks of thee;
If when the her fports does keep
(The lower foul being all afleep)
She play one dream with all her art,
Where thou haft not the longest part;
If ought get place in my remembrance,

...