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النشر الإلكتروني



THOU art return'd, great Light, to that blest hour
In which I first, by marriage' sacred power,
Join'd with Castara hearts; and as the same
Thy lustre is as then, so is our flame:

Which had increas'd, but that by love's decree
Twas such at first-it ne'er could greater be!
But tell me, glorious Lamp! in thy survey
Of things below thee, what did not decay
By age to weakness? I, since that, have seen
The Rose bud forth and fade; the Tree grow green,
And wither; and the beauty of the field
With Winter wrinkled: even thyself dost yield
Something to Time, and to the grave fall nigher:
But Virtuous Love is one sweet, endless fire!


LIKE the violet, which alone

Prospers in some happy shade,

My Castara lives unknown,

To no looser eye betray'd;

For she's to herself untrue,
Who delights i'th' public view.

Such is her beauty, as no arts
Have enrich'd with borrow'd grace;
Her high birth no pride imparts,
For she blushes in her place;
Folly boasts a glorious blood-
She is noblest, being good.

She her throne makes reason climb,
Whilst wild passions captive lie;
And, each article of time,

Her pure thoughts to heaven fly.
All her vows religious be,
And her love she vows to me.



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, Castara, for 'tis thine.

Take thou a heart, where no new look

Provokes new appetite;

With no fresh charm of beauty took,
Or wanton stratagem of wit;
Not idly wandering here and there,
Led by an amorous eye or ear,

Aiming each beauteous mark to hit;
Which virtue doth to one confine :

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; For we courtiers learn at school,

Only with your sex to fool

You're not worth the serious part.

When I sigh and kiss your hand,
Cross my arms, and wond'ring stand,
Holding parley with your eye:
Then dilate on my desires,

Swear the sun ne'er shot such fires,
All is but a handsome lie.

When I eye your curl or lace,

Gentle soul, you think your face

Straight some murder doth commit;
And your virtue doth begin
To grow scrupulous of my sin,
When I talk to shew my wit.

Therefore, Madam, wear no cloud,
Nor to check my love grow proud,
For in sooth, I much do doubt
"Tis the powder on your hair,
Not your breath, perfumes the air,

And your cloaths that set you out.
Yet though truth has this confess'd,
And I vow, I love in jest,

When I next begin to court, And protest an amorous flame, You will swear I in earnest am, Bedlam! this is pretty sport.


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!
How rich a perfume do ye yield!
In some close garden, cowslips so
Are sweeter than in the' open field.

In those white cloysters live secure
From the rude blasts of wanton breath,
Each hour more innocent and pure,
Till you shall wither into death.

Then, that which living gave you room,
Your glorious sepulchre shall be;
There wants no marble for a tomb,

Whose breast hath marble been to me!



not their prófane orgies hear,

Who but to wealth no altars rear; The soul's oft poison'd through the ear:

Castara! rather seek to dwell

In the' silence of a private cell:
Rich Discontent's a glorious hell!
Yet, Hindlip doth not want extent
Of room, though not magnificent,
To give free welcome to content.
There, shalt thou see the early Spring
That wealthy stock of nature bring,
Of which the Sybil's books did sing:

From fruitless palms shall honey flow;
And barren Winter harvest show,
While lilies in his bosom grow:

No north-wind shall the corn infest,
But the soft spirit of the East

Our scent with perfum❜d banquets feast:

A Satyr, here and there, shall trip
In hope to purchase leave to sip
Sweet nectar from a Fairy's lip:

The Nymphs, with quivers shall adorn
Their active sides; and rouse the morn
With the shrill music of the horn:

Waken'd with which, and viewing thee,
Fair Daphné her fair self shall free
From the chaste prison of a tree;
And with Narcissus, (to thy face
Who humbly will ascribe all grace)
Shall once again pursue the chase.
So they whose wisdom did discuss
Of these as fictious, shall in us
Find they were more than fabulous!


AIR Lady, when you see the grace


Of beauty in your looking-glass-
A stately forehead, smooth and high,
And full of princely majesty;
A sparkling eye, no gem so fair,
Whose lustre dims the cyprian star;
A glorious cheek, divinely sweet,
Wherein both roses kindly meet;
A cherry lip that would entice
- Even gods to kiss, at any price;
You think no beauty is so rare,
That with your shadow might compare,
That your reflection is alone

The thing that men most doat upon.
Madam, alas! your glass doth lie;
And you are much deceiv'd, for I
A beauty know of richer grace.
Sweet! be not angry-'tis your face.
Hence then, O learn more mild to be,
And leave to lay your blame on me!
If me your real substance move,
When you so much your shadow love.
Wise nature would not let your eye
Look on her own bright majesty,
Which had you once but gaz'd upon,
You could except yourself love none:
What then you cannot love, let me-
That face I can, you cannot see!

"Now, you have what you love (you'll say), What then is left for me, I pray?"

My face, sweet Heart! if it please thee;
That which you can, I cannot see.

So either love shall gain his due,

Your's, Sweet! in me, and mine in you!

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