Of the fole Lady, who had power to move
The great Northumberland to grieve, and love.
To my LORD ADMIRAL, of his late Sickness and Recovery.
WITH joy like ours, the Thracian youth invades
Orpheus, returning from th' Elysian shades;
Embrace the Hero, and his stay implore;
Make it their public fuit, he would no more
Defert them fo; and for his fpoufe's fake,
His vanish'd love, tempt the Lethean lake:
The Ladies too, the brightest of that time,
(Ambitious all his lofty bed to climb)
Their doubtful hopes with expectation feed,
Who fhall the fair Eurydice fucceed:
Eurydice! for whom his numerous moan
Makes liftening trees and favage mountains groan :
Through all the air his founding ftrings dilate
Sorrow, like that which touch'd our hearts of late.
Your pining fick nefs, and your restless pain,
At once the land affecting, and the Main :
When the glad news that you were Admiral
Scarce through the nation spread, 'twas fear'd by all
That our great Charles, whose wisdom shines in you,
Would be perplexed how to chufe a new.
So more than private was the joy, and grief,
That at the worst it gave our fouls relief,
That in our age such sense of virtue liv'd;
They joy'd fo juftly, and fo juftly griev'd..
Nature (her faireft lights eclipfed) feems
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 fufpend,
Nought can our wifles, 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 so fair a train
To be lamented, and restor'd again?
Or thus with-held, what hasty soul 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 second 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 stock, which still the world supplies
With bravest spirits, and with brightest eyes;
Kind Phoebus interpofing, bid me fay
Such ftorms 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.
The world to which you fly fo 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 those 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.
UCH was Philoclea, and such † 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, compofe;
Wonders fo diftant in one face difclofe!
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 fee 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 ftory marr'd.
Juft nature, first instructed by his thought,
In his own house thus practis'd what he taught:
This glorious piece transcends what he could think;
So much his blood is nobler than his ink!
TO VAN DYCK.
ARE Artifan, whofe pencil moves
Not our delights alone, but loves!
From thy fhop of beauty we
Slaves return, that enter'd free.
The heedless lover does not know
Whofe 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 fcorn nor cruelty does find: But gladly fuffers a false wind To blow the afhes of despair From the reviving brand of care. Fool! that forgets her ftubborn look This foftnefs from thy finger took. Strange! that thy hand should not inspire 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 rehearfe, (That I may make it live in verse) Why thou couldft not, at one affay, 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 blifs? 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:
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