Nature (her faireft lights eclipsed) seems Or thus with-held, what hafty foul would go, By lofs of thee would no advantage have, 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; SON G. TAY, Phoebus, stay! STA The world to which you fly so fast, 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, About the world: her charming looks 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, All the rich flowers through his Arcadia found, Had but this copy (which the artist took 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: Inquires her name that has his heart. Feels his old wound bleed fresh again, 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 But now 'tis done, O let me know No; for this theft thou haft climb'd higher, AT PENS-HURST. HAD Dorothea liv'd when mortals made Choice of their Deities, this facred fhade And beauty too, and order can impart, Ye |