O, speak a lowly muse's pardon; speak
Her pardon or her sentence; only break
Thy silence! speak; and she shall take from thence Numbers, and sweetness, and an influence
Confessing thee! or, if too long I stay,
O, speak thou, and my pipe hath nought to say.
For see, Apollo all this while stands mute,
Expecting by thy voice to tune his lute.
But gods are gracious, and their altars make
Precious their offerings that their altars take;
Give, then, this rural wreath fire from thine eyes:
This rural wreath dares be thy sacrifice.
UPON FORD'S TWO TRAGEDIES,
Love's Sacrifice, and the Broken Heart.
HOU cheat'st us, Ford, mak'st one seem
What is love's sacrifice but the broken heart?
ON A FOUL MORNING,
Being then to take a Journey.
HERE art thou, Sol, while thus the blindfold day
Staggers out of the East, losing her way, Stumbling on night? Rouse thee, illustrious youth, And let no dull mists choke the light's fair growth.
Point here thy beams, O, glance on yonder flocks,
And make their fleeces golden as thy locks.
Unfold thy fair front, and there shall appear
Full glory flaming in her own free sphere.
Gladness shall clothe the earth, we will instile
The face of things an universal smile:
Say to the sullen morn, thou com'st to court her,
And wilt demand proud Zephyrus to sport her,
With wanton gales; his balmy breath shall lick
The tender drops which tremble on her cheek;
Which rarified, and in a gentle rain
On those delicious banks distill'd again,
Shall rise in a sweet harvest, which discloses
In every blush a bed of new-born roses.
He'll fan her bright locks, teaching them to flow
And frisk in curled meanders: he will throw
A fragrant breath, suck'd from the spicy nest
O'th' precious Phoenix, warm upon her breast:
He with a dainty and soft hand will trim
And brush her azure mantle, which shall swim
In silken volumes; wheresoe'er she'll tread,
Bright clouds, like golden fleeces, shall be spread.
Rise then, fair blue-eyed maid, rise and discover
Thy silver brow, and meet thy golden lover.
See how he runs, with what a hasty flight
Into thy bosom, bathed with liquid light.
Fly, fly, profane fogs, far hence fly away,
Taint not the pure streams of the springing day
With dull influence; it is for you
To sit and scowl upon night's heavy brow;
Not on the fresh cheeks of the virgin morn,
Where nought but smiles and ruddy joys are worn:
Fly, then, and do not think with her to stay;
Let it suffice, she'll wear no mask to-day.
O, here, the fair Chariclia! in whom strove
So false a fortune and so true a love.
Now, after all her toils by sea and land,
O, may she but arrive at your white hand,
Her hopes are crown'd; only she fears that then
She shall appear true Ethiopian!
WOULD be married, but I'd have no wife;
I would be married to a single life.
TO THE MORNING.
Satisfaction for Sleep.
HAT succour can I hope the Muse will send, Whose drowsiness hath wrong'd the Muse's friend?
What hope, Aurora, to propitiate thee,
Unless the Muse sing my apology?
O! in that morning of my shame, when I
Lay folded up in sleep's captivity;
How at the sight didst thou draw back thine eyes
Into thy modest veil! how didst thou rise
Twice dyed in thine own blushes, and didst run
To draw the curtains and awake the sun!
Who, rousing his illustrious tresses, came,
And seeing the loath'd object, hid for shame
His head in thy fair bosom, and still hides
Me from his patronage; I pray, he chides;
And, pointing to dull Morpheus, bids me take
My own Apollo, try if I can make
His Lethe be my Helicon: and see
If Morpheus have a Muse to wait on me.
Hence 'tis my humble fancy finds no wings,
No nimble raptures, starts to heaven and brings
Enthusiastic flames, such as can give
Marrow to my plump genius, make it live
Dress'd in the glorious madness of a Muse,
Whose feet can walk the milky-way, and choose
Her starry throne; whose holy heats can warm
The
grave, and hold up an exalted arm
To lift me from my lazy urn, and climb
Upon the stoopèd shoulders of old Time,
And trace eternity. But all is dead,
All these delicious hopes are buried
In the deep wrinkles of his angry brow,
Where mercy cannot find them; but, O thou
Bright lady of the morn, pity doth lie
So warm in thy soft breast, it cannot die;
Have mercy, then, and when he next doth rise,
O, meet the angry god, invade his eyes,
And stroke his radiant cheeks; one timely kiss
So to the treasure of thy pearly dew
Thrice will I pay three tears, to show how true
My grief is; so my wakeful lay shall knock
At th' oriental gates, and duly mock
The early lark's shrill orisons to be
An anthem at the day's nativity.
And the same rosy-finger'd hand of thine,
That shuts night's dying eyes, shall open mine.
But thou, faint god of sleep, forget that I
Was ever known to be thy votary.
No more my pillow shall thine altar be,
Nor will I offer any more to thee
Myself a melting sacrifice; I'm born.
Again a fresh child of the buxom morn.
Heir of the sun's first beams, why threat'st thou so?
Why dost thou shake thy leaden sceptre? Go,
Bestow thy poppy upon wakeful woe,
Sickness and sorrow, whose pale lids ne'er know
Thy downy finger dwell upon their eyes;
Shut in their tears, shut out their miseries.
OVE, brave virtue's younger brother,
Erst hath made my heart a mother.
She consults the conscious spheres,
To calculate her young son's years;
She asks if sad or saving pow'rs
Gave omen to his infant hours;
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