Nature (her faireft lights eclipsed) seems
Herfelf to fuffer in those sharp extremes :
While not from thine alone thy blood retires,
But from thofe cheeks which all the world admires.
The stem thus threaten'd, and the fap in thee,
Droop all the branches of that noble tree!
Their beauty they, and we our love suspend,
Nought can our wishes, fave thy health, intend.
As lilies over-charg'd with rain, they bend
Their beauteous heads, and with high Heaven contend
Fold thee within their fnowy arms, and cry
He is too faultlefs, and too young, to die.
So like Immortals round about thee they
Sit, that they fright approaching Death away.
Who would not languish, by fo fair a train
To be lamented, and reftor'd again?

Or thus with-held, what hafty foul would go,
Though to the Bleft? O'er her Adonis fo
Fair Venus mourn'd, and with the precious shower
Of her warm tears cherish'd the springing flower.
The next fupport, fair hope of your great name,
And fecond pillar of that noble frame,

By lofs of thee would no advantage have,
But step by step pursue thee to the grave.
And now, relentless Fate about to end
The line, which backwards does fo far extend
That antique ftock, which still the world supplies
With bravest spirits, and with brightest eyes;

Kind Phœbus interpofing, bid me fay

Such storms no more shall shake that house; but they

Like Neptune, and his

fea-born Niece, fhall be

The fhining glories of the land and sea :

With courage guard, and beauty warm, our age;
And lovers fill with like poetic rage.

SON G.

TAY, Phoebus, stay!

STA

The world to which you fly so fast,
Conveying day

From us to them, can pay your hafte

With no fuch object, nor falute your rife

With no fuch wonder, as De Mornay's eyes.

Well does this prove

The error of thofe antique books,
Which made you move

About the world: her charming looks
Would fix your beams, and make it ever day,
Did not the rolling earth fnatch her away.

On my Lady DOROTHY SIDNEY'S Picture.

SUCH

OUCH was Philoclea, and fuch + Dorus' flame; The matchlefs Sidney, that immortal frame Of perfect beauty, on two pillars plac'd: Not his high fancy could one pattern, grac'd With fuch extremes of excellence, compose; Wonders fo diftant in one face difclofe !

* Venus. + Pamela.

Sir Philip Sidney.

Such

Such chearful modefty, fuch humble state,
Moves certain love; but with as doubtful fate,
As when, beyond our greedy reach, we fee
Inviting fruit on too fublime a tree.

All the rich flowers through his Arcadia found,
Amaz'd we see in this one garland bound.

Had but this copy (which the artist took
From the fair picture of that noble book)
Stood at Kalander's, the brave friends had jarr'd;
And, rivals made, th' enfuing story marr'd.
Juft nature, first inftructed by his thought,
In his own houfe thus practis'd what he taught:
This glorious piece tranfcends what he could think;
So much his blood is nobler than his ink!

TO VAN DYCK.

OARE Artifan, whofe pencil moves

RA

Not our delights alone, but loves!

From thy fhop of beauty we

Slaves return, that enter'd free.

The heedlefs lover does not know

Whose eyes they are that wound him fo:
But, confounded with thy art,

Inquires her name that has his heart.
Another, who did long refrain,

Feels his old wound bleed fresh again,
With dear remembrance of that face,
Where now he reads new hope of grace:

Pyrocles and Mufidorus.

Nor

Nor fcorn nor cruelty does find: But gladly fuffers a falfe wind To blow the ashes of despair From the reviving brand of care. Fool! that forgets her stubborn look This foftness from thy finger took. Strange! that thy hand fhould not infpire The beauty only, but the fire: Not the form alone, and grace, But act, and power, of a face. May'st thou yet thyself as well, As all the world befides, excel ! So you th' unfeigned truth rehearse, (That I may make it live in verse) Why thou couldst not, at one afssay, That face to after-times convey, Which this admires. Was it thy wit To make her oft before thee fit? Confefs, and we'll forgive thee this: For who would not repeat that bliss ? And frequent fight of fuch a dame Buy, with the hazard of his fame? Yet who can tax thy blameless skill, Though thy good hand had failed still; When nature's felf fo often errs? She for this many thousand years Seems to have practis'd with much care, To frame the race of women fair; Yet never could a perfect birth Produce before, to grace the earth:

Which waxed old, ere it could fee
Her that amaz'd thy Art, and thee.

But now 'tis done, O let me know
Where thofe immortal colors grow,
That could this deathlefs piece compofe?
In lilies? or the fading rofe?

No; for this theft thou haft climb'd higher,
Than did Prometheus for his fire.

AT PENS-HURST.

HAD Dorothea liv'd when mortals made

Choice of their Deities, this facred fhade
Had held an altar to her power, that gave
The peace and glory which thefe alleys have:
Embroider'd fo with flowers where the flood,
That it became a garden of a wood.
Her prefence has fuch more than human grace,
That it can civilize the rudest place:

And beauty too, and order can impart,
Where nature ne'er intended it, nor art.
The plants acknowledge this, and her admire,
No lefs than thofe of old did Orpheus' lyre:
If the fit down, with tops all tow'rds her bow'd,
They round about her into arbors crowd:"
Or if the walk, in even ranks they stand,
Like fome well-marshal'd and obfequious band,
Amphion fo made stones and timber leap
Into fair figures, from a confus'd heap:
And in the fymmetry of her parts is found
A power, like that of harmony in found,
E

Ye