To a LADY in Retirement.

EES not my Love, how time refumes

The glory which he lent these flowers? Though none should taste of their perfumes, Yet muft they live but fome few hours: Time, what we forbear, devours!

Had Helen, or th' * Egyptian Queen,
Been near fo thrifty of their graces;
Those beauties must at length have been
The fpoil of age, which finds out faces
In the most retired places.

Should fome malignant planet bring

A barren drought, or ceaseless fhower,
Upon the autumn, or the spring,

And spare us neither fruit nor flower;
Winter would not stay an hour.

Could the refolve of love's neglect
Preferve you from the violation
Of coming years, then more respect
Were due to fo divine a fashion;
Nor would I indulge my paffion.

The MISER'S SPEECH; in a Masque.

BALLS of this metal flack'd Atlanta's pace,

And on the * amorous youth bestow'd the race: Venus (the nymph's mind measuring by her own) Whom the rich spoils of cities overthrown Had proftrated to Mars, could well advise Th' adventurous lover how to gain the prize. Nor lefs may Jupiter to gold afcribe : For, when he turn'd himself into a bribe, Who can blame Danaë, or the brazen tower, That they withstood not that almighty shower? Never till then, did Love make Jove put on A form more bright, and nobler, than his own: Nor were it juft, would he refume that shape, That flack devotion should his thunder fcape. 'Twas not revenge for griev'd Apollo's wrong, Thofe afs's ears on Midas' temples hung: But fond repentance of his happy wish, Because his meat grew metal like his dish. Would Bacchus blefs me fo, I'd conftant hold Unto my with, and die creating gold.

UPON BEN JONSON.

MIRROR of Poets! Mirror of our age!

Which, her whole face beholding on thy Stage,

Pleas'd, and difpleas'd, with her own faults, endures A remedy like thofe whom mufic cures.

* Hippomenes.

Thou

Thou haft alone thofe various inclinations,
Which nature gives to ages, fexes, nations:
So traced with thy all-refembling pen,
That whate'er custom has impos'd on men,
Or ill-got habit (which deforms them fo,
That scarce a brother can his brother know)
Is represented to the wondering eyes
Of all that fee or read thy comedies.
Whoever in those glasses looks, may find
The fpots return'd, or graces, of his mind:
And, by the help of so divine an art,
At leifure view and dress his nobler part.
Narciffus, cozen'd by that flattering Well,
Which nothing could but of his beauty tell,
Had here, discovering the deform'd estate
Of his fond mind, preferv'd himself with hate.
But virtue too, as well as vice, is clad

In flesh and blood fo well, that Plato had
Beheld, what his high fancy once embrac'd,
Virtue with colours, fpeech, and motion grac'd.
The fundry postures of thy copious Mufe
Who would exprefs, a thousand tongues must use;
Whofe fate's no lefs peculiar than thy art;
For as thou couldst all characters impart,
So none could render thine; which still escapes,
Like Proteus, in variety of fhapes:

1

Who was, nor this, nor that; but all we find,
And all we can imagine, in mankind.

ON

F

ON MR. JOHN FLETCHER'S PLAYS. LETCHER! to thee we do not only owe All these good plays, but thofe of others too: Thy wit repeated, does fupport the Stage; Credits the laft, and entertains this age. No Worthies, form'd by any Mufe but thine, Could purchase robes, to make themselves fo fine. What brave commander is not proud, to see Thy brave Melantius in his gallantry? Our greatest Ladies love to fee their scorn Out-done by thine, in what themselves have worn Th' impatient widow, ere the year be done, Sees thy Afpafia weeping in her gown.

I never yet the Tragic ftrain affay'd,
Deter'd by that inimitable Maid.

And, when I venture at the comic style,
Thy Scornful Lady feems to mock my toil.

Thus has thy Mufe at once improv'd and mar’d
Our fport in Plays, by rendering it too hard!
So, when a fort of lufty fhepherds throw
The bar by turns, and none the reft out-go
So far, but that the beft are measuring cafts,
Their emulation and their paftime lafts:

But, if fome brawny Yeoman of the Guard
Step in, and tofs the axle-tree a yard,
Or more, beyond the furtheft mark, the reft
Defpairing ftand, their fport is at the best.

The Maid's Tragedy.

TO

TO MR. GEORGE SANDYS,

On his TRANSLATION of fome Parts of the BIBLE.

H

OW bold a work attempts that pen,
Which would enrich our vulgar tongue
With the high raptures of those men,
Who here with the same spirit fung,
Wherewith they now affift the choir
Of angels, who their fongs admire!
Whatever those inspired fouls

Were urged to exprefs, did shake
The aged Deep, and both the Poles;

Their numerous thunder could awake
Dull earth, which does with Heaven confent
To all they wrote, and all they meant.
Say, facred Bard! what could bestow
Courage, on thee, to foar fo high?
Tell me, brave friend! what help'd thee fo
To shake off all mortality?

To light this torch, thou hast climb'd higher
Than he who ftole celeftial fire.

*Prometheus.

ΤΟ