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To melt the marble ice that still doth hold
ASK me no more-where Jove bestows,
When June is past, the fading rose?
Ask me no more-whither do stray
Ask me no more-where those Stars light,
Ask me no more-if east or west, The Phoenix builds her spicy nest; *For unto you, at last, she flies, And in your fragrant bosom dies!
DEATH'S FINAL CONQUEST.
THE glories of our birth and state
Are shadows, not substantial things; There is no armour against fate;
Death lays his icy hands on kings.
Must tumble down,
And in the dust be equal made
Some men with swords may reap the field,
And plant fresh laurels where they kill; But their strong nerves at last must yield; They tame but one another still.
Early or late,
They stoop to fate,
And must give up their murmuring breath, When they, pale captives, creep to death.
The garlands wither on your brow,
Then boast no more your mighty deeds; Upon death's purple altar now,
See where the victor victim bleeds.
All heads must come
Only the actions of the just
Smell sweet, and blossom in the dust.
TO THE SUN.
THOU art return'd, great Light, to that blest hour
Which had increas'd, but that by love's decree
THE DESCRIPTION OF CASTARA.
Prospers in some happy shade,
My Castara lives unknown,
For she's to herself untrue,
Such is her beauty, as no arts
She her throne makes reason climb,
Her pure thoughts to heaven fly.
IVE me a heart, where no impure Disorder'd passions rage; Which jealousy doth not obscure, Nor vanity t' expence engage:* Nor woo'd to madness by quaint oaths, Or the fine rhetoric of cloaths, Which not the softness of the age To vice or folly doth incline: Give me that heart, Castarà, for 'tis thine.
Take thou a heart, where no new look
With no fresh charm of beauty took,
Not idly wandering here and there,
Aiming each beauteous mark to hit;
Take thou that heart, Castara, for 'tis mine.
FINE young Folly, tho' you were
That fair beauty I did swear,
Yet you ne'er could touch my heart;
You're not worth the serious part.
When I sigh and kiss your hand,
When I eye your curl or lace,
Straight some murder doth commit;
Yet though truth has this confess'd,
When I next begin to court,
TO ROSES, IN THE BOSOM OF CASTARA.
YE, blushing Virgins! happy are
In the chaste nunnery of her breasts; For he'd profane so chaste a fair,
Who e'er should call them Cupid's nests!
Transplanted thus, how bright ye grow!
Are sweeter than in the' open field.
In those white cloysters live secure
From the rude blasts of wanton breath,
Then, that which living gave you room,
Whose breast hath marble been to me!