Phyllis! 'twas love that injured you, And on that rock your Thrysis threw; Who for proud Celia could have died, While you no less accused his pride.

Fond Love his darts at random throws, And nothing springs from what he sows; From foes discharged, as often meet The shining points of arrows fleet, In the wide air creating fire, As souls that join in one desire. 10

Love made the lovely Venus burn In vain, and for the cold youth[1] mourn, Who the pursuit of churlish beasts Preferr'd to sleeping on her b.r.e.a.s.t.s.

Love makes so many hearts the prize Of the bright Carlisle's conqu'ring eyes, Which she regards no more than they The tears of lesser beauties weigh.

So have I seen the lost clouds pour Into the sea an useless shower; 20 And the vex'd sailors curse the rain For which poor shepherds pray'd in vain.

Then, Phyllis, since our pa.s.sions are Govern'd by chance, and not the care, But sport of heaven, which takes delight To look upon this Parthian fight Of love, still flying, or in chase, Never encount'ring face to face; No more to Love we'll sacrifice, But to the best of deities; 30 And let our hearts, which Love disjoin'd, By his kind mother be combin'd.

[1] 'Cold youth ': Adonis.

TO THE QUEEN-MOTHER OF FRANCE, UPON HER LANDING.[1]

Great Queen of Europe! where thy offspring wears All the chief crowns; where princes are thy heirs; As welcome thou to sea-girt Britain's sh.o.r.e, As erst Latona (who fair Cynthia bore) To Delos was; here shines a nymph as bright, By thee disclosed, with like increase of light.

Why was her joy in Belgia confined?

Or why did you so much regard the wind?

Scarce could the ocean, though enraged, have toss'd Thy sov'reign bark, but where th'obsequious coast 10 Pays tribute to thy bed. Rome's conqu'ring hand More vanquished nations under her command Never reduced. Glad Berecynthia so Among her deathless progeny did go; A wreath of towers adorn'd her rev'rend head, Mother of all that on ambrosia fed.

Thy G.o.dlike race must sway the age to come, As she Olympus peopled with her womb.

Would those commanders of mankind obey Their honour'd parent, all pretences lay 20 Down at your royal feet, compose their jars, And on the growing Turk discharge these wars; The Christian knights that sacred tomb should wrest From Pagan hands, and triumph o'er the East; Our England's Prince, and Gallia's Dolphin, might Like young Rinaldo and Tancredi fight; In single combat by their swords again The proud Argantes and fierce Soldan slain; Again might we their valiant deeds recite, And with your Tuscan Muse[2] exalt the fight. 30

[2] 'Her landing': Mary de Medicis, widow of Henry IV., and mother of the King of France, and of the Queens of England and Spain, coming to England in 1638, was very ill received by the people, and forced ultimately to leave the country.

[2] 'Tuscan Muse': Ta.s.so.

TO VANDYCK.[1]

Rare Artisan, whose pencil moves Not our delights alone, but loves!

From thy shop of beauty we Slaves return, that enter'd free.

The heedless lover does not know Whose eyes they are that wound him so; But, confounded with thy art, Inquires her name that has his heart.

Another, who did long refrain, Feels his old wound bleed fresh again 10 With dear remembrance of that face, Where now he reads new hope of grace: Nor scorn nor cruelty does find, But gladly suffers a false wind To blow the ashes of despair From the reviving brand of care.

Fool! that forgets her stubborn look This softness from thy finger took.

Strange! that thy hand should not inspire The beauty only, but the fire; 20 Not the form alone, and grace, But act and power of a face.

Mayst thou yet thyself as well, As all the world besides, excel!

So you th'unfeigned truth rehea.r.s.e (That I may make it live in verse), Why thou couldst not at one a.s.say,[2]

The face to aftertimes convey, Which this admires. Was it thy wit To make her oft before thee sit? 30 Confess, and we'll forgive thee this; For who would not repeat that bliss, And frequent sight of such 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 self so often errs?

She for this many thousand years 38 Seems to have practised 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 see Her that amazed thy art and thee.

But now 'tis done, oh, let me know Where those immortal colours grow, That could this deathless piece compose!

In lilies? or the fading rose?

No; for this theft thou hast climb'd higher Than did Prometheus for his fire. 50

[1] 'Vandyck': some think this refers to a picture of Saccharissa, by Vandyck, in Hall-Barn.

[2] 'a.s.say': attempt.

TO MY LORD OF LEICESTER.[1]

1 Not that thy trees at Penshurst groan, Oppressed with their timely load, And seem to make their silent moan, That their great lord is now abroad: They to delight his taste, or eye, Would spend themselves in fruit, and die.

2 Not that thy harmless deer repine, And think themselves unjustly slain By any other hand than thine, Whose arrows they would gladly stain; No, nor thy friends, which hold too dear That peace with France which keeps thee there.

3 All these are less than that great cause Which now exacts your presence here, Wherein there meet the divers laws Of public and domestic care.

For one bright nymph our youth contends, And on your prudent choice depends.

4 Not the bright shield of Thetis' son[2]

(For which such stern debate did rise, That the great Ajax Telamon Refused to live without the prize), Those Achive peers did more engage Than she the gallants of our age.

5 That beam of beauty, which begun To warm us so when thou wert here, Now scorches like the raging sun, When Sirius does first appear.

Oh, fix this flame! and let despair Redeem the rest from endless care.

[1] 'Lord of Leicester': Saccharissa's father. He was employed at this time in foreign service.

[2] 'Thetis' son': Achilles.

TO MRS BRAUGHTON, SERVANT TO SACCHARISSA.

Fair fellow-servant! may your gentle ear Prove more propitious to my slighted care Than the bright dame's we serve: for her relief (Vex'd with the long expressions of my grief) Receive these plaints; nor will her high disdain Forbid my humble Muse to court her train.

So, in those nations which the sun adore, Some modest Persian, or some weak-eyed Moor, No higher dares advance his dazzled sight, Than to some gilded cloud, which near the light 10 Of their ascending G.o.d adorns the east, And, graced with his beams, outshines the rest.

Thy skilful hand contributes to our woe, And whets those arrows which confound us so.

A thousand Cupids in those curls do sit (Those curious nets!) thy slender fingers knit.

The Graces put not more exactly on Th' attire of Venus, when the ball she won, Than Saccharissa by thy care is dress'd, When all our youth prefers her to the rest. 20

You the soft season know when best her mind May be to pity, or to love, inclined: In some well-chosen hour supply his fear, Whose hopeless love durst never tempt the ear Of that stern G.o.ddess. You, her priest, declare What offerings may propitiate the fair; Rich orient pearl, bright stones that ne'er decay, Or polish'd lines, which longer last than they; For if I thought she took delight in those, To where the cheerful morn does first disclose, 30 (The shady night removing with her beams), Wing'd with bold love, I'd fly to fetch such gems.

But since her eyes, her teeth, her lip excels All that is found in mines or fishes' sh.e.l.ls, Her n.o.bler part as far exceeding these, None but immortal gifts her mind should please.

The shining jewels Greece and Troy bestow'd On Sparta's queen,[1] her lovely neck did load, And snowy wrists; but when the town was burn'd, Those fading glories were to ashes turn'd; 40 Her beauty, too, had perished, and her fame, Had not the Muse redeemed them from the flame.

[1] 'Sparta's queen': Helen.

TO MY YOUNG LADY LUCY SIDNEY.[1]