THYRSIS. Proud world, said I, cease your contest, And let the mighty babe alone, The phoenix builds the phenix' nest, Love's architecture is His own. The babe, whose birth embraves this morn, Made His own bed ere He was born. Chorus. The babe whose birth, &c. TITYRUS. I saw the curl'd drops, soft and slow, THYRSIS. I saw th' obsequious seraphim Their rosy fleece of fire bestow, For well they now can spare their wings, Since Heaven itself lies here below. Well done, said I; but Your down, so warm, Chorus. will pass for pure? Well done, said I, &c. Вотн. No, no, your King's not yet to seek Where to repose His royal head ; See, see how soon His new-bloom'd cheek "Twixt mother's breasts is gone to bed. Sweet choice, said we, no way but so, FULL CHORUS. Welcome all wonders in one sight! Eternity shut in a span! Summer in winter! day in night! CHORUS. Heaven in earth! and God in man! Welcome, tho' nor to gold, nor silk, To more than Cæsar's birthright is : With many a rarely-temper'd kiss, That breathes at once both maid and mother, She sings Thy tears asleep, and dips/ Welcome-tho' not to those gay flies, * This verse is not in the version of the Paris edition of 1652. But to poor shepherds, homespun things, Whose wealth's their flocks, whose wit's to be Well read in their simplicity. Yet, when young April's husband show'rs To kiss Thy feet, and crown Thy head. To Thee, dread Lamb! whose love must keep The shepherds while they feed their sheep. To Thee, meek Majesty, soft King Each his pair of silver doves! At last, in fire of Thy fair eyes, Ourselves become our own best sacrifice! SOSPETTO D'HERODE. LIBRO PRIMO. ARGOMENTO. CASTING the times with their strong signs, M USE, now the servant of soft loves no more, ness?-tore A thousand sweet babes from their mothers' breast, The blooms of martyrdom. Q, be a door Of confessors! whose throats, answering his swords, Great Anthony! Spain's well-beseeming pride, Map of heroic worth! whom far and wide 3 Deign thou to wear this humble wreath that bows Nor needs my Muse a blush, or these bright flow'rs, Thou, whose strong hand, with so transcendent worth, Holds high the reign of fair Parthenope, That neither Rome nor Athens can bring forth A name in noble deeds rival to thee! Thy fame's full noise makes proud the patient earth, Far more than matter for my Muse and me. The Tyrrhene seas and shores sound all the same, And in their murmurs keep thy mighty name! Below the bottom of the great abyss, There, where one centre reconciles all things, Fast bound, since first he forfeited the skies. |