To our very foul they strike,
All our fenfes pleas'd alike.
But fo pure a white and red,
Never, never, can be faid:
What are words in fuch a cafe?
What is paint to such a face?
How should either art avail us?
Fancy here it felf muft fail us.
In her looks, and in her mien,
Such a gracefull air is seen,
That if you, with all your art,
Can but reach the fmalleft part;
Next to her, the matchlefs fhe,
We shall wonder most at thee.
Then her neck, and breasts, and hair,
Your Venus then may look like mine,
Whofe bright form, if once you faw,
You by her would Venus draw.
On DON ALONZO's being killed in
Portugal, upon account of the IN-
FANTA, in the Year 1683.
N fuch a caufe no Mufe fhould fail
If bear a mournfull part;
Tis juft and noble to bewail
The fate of fall'n defert.
In vain ambitious hopes defign'd
To make his soul aspire,
If love and beauty had not join'd
To raise a brighter fire.
Amidft fo many dang'rous foes.
How weak the wifeft prove!
Reason it self would scarce oppose,
And feems agreed with love;\
If from the glorious height he falls,
He greatly daring dies;
Or mounting where bright beauty calls
An Empire is the prize.
Afely perhaps dull crowds admire;
But I, alas, am, all on fire.
Like him who thought in childhood paft
That dire disease which kill'd at last,
I durft have fworn I lov'd before;
And fancy'd all the danger o'er;
Had felt the pangs of jealous pain,
And born the blafts of cold difdain;
Then reap'd at length the mighty gains
That full reward of all our pains!
But what was all fuch grief or joy,
That did my heedlefs years employ ?
Mere dreams of feign'd fantaftick pow'rs,
But the disease of idle hours:
Amusement, humour, affectation,
Compar'd with this fublimer paffion,
Whose raptures, bright as those above,
Outshine the flames of zeal, or love.
Yet think not, fairest, what I fing,
Can from a love platonick fpring;
That formal foftness, false and vain,
Not of the heart, but of the brain.
Thou art indeed above all Nature,
But I, a wretched human creature,
Wanting thy gentle, gen'rous aid',
Of Husband, rivals, friends afraid!
Amidst all this seraphic fire,
Am almost dying with defire,
With eager wishes, ardent thoughts,
Prone to commit love's 'wildeft faults
And (as we are on Sundays told
The lufty Patriarch did of old) '
Would force a bleffing from thofe charms,
And grafp an Angel in my arms.
A Dialogue fung on the Stage
between an elderly Shepherd
and a very young Nymph:
Right and blooming as the fpring,
Univerfal love inspiring!
All our Swains thy praifes fing,
Ever gazing and admiring.
N. Praises in fo high a ftrain,
And by fuch a Shepherd fung, Are enough to make me vain, Yet fo harmless & fo young.
Sh. I fhould have defpair'd among
Rivals that apear fo gayly:
But your eyes have made me young
By their fmiling on me dayly.
N. Idle boys admire us blindly,
Are inconftant, wild and bold; And your ufing me fo kindly,
Is a proof you are not old.
Sh. With thy pleasing voice and fashion,
With thy humour and thy youth,
Chear my foul, and crown my paffion,
Oh, reward my love and truth.
N. With thy careful arts to cover
That which fools will count a fault,
Trueft friend as well as lover,
Oh deferve fo kind a thought.
Each apart first, and then both
together.
Happy we shall lie poffeffing,
Folded in each other's arms,
Love and nature's chiefeft bleffing
In the ftill increasing charms.
So the deareft joys of loving
Which scarce Heaven can go beyond,
Will be ev'ry day improving,
sh. You more fair, and I more fond. N. I more fair, and you more fond.
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