Of Men, like Phœbus, fo divides her Light,

And warms us, that she stoops not from her Height.

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Of Loving at First Sight.

NOT caring to obferve the Wind,

Or the new Sea explore,

Snatch'd from my felf, how far behind
Already I behold the Shore!

May not a thousand Dangers fleep
In the smooth Bofom of this Deep?
No: 'Tis fo rockless and fo clear,
That the rich Bottom does appear
Pav'd all with precious Things, not torn
From fhipwrack'd Veffels, but there born.

Sweetnefs, Truth, and ev'ry Grace,
Which Time and Use are wont to teach,
The Eye may in a Moment reach,
And read diftinctly in her Face.

Some other Nymphs, with Colours faint,
And Pencil flow, may Cupid paint,
And a weak Heart in Time destroy;
She has a Stamp, and prints the Boy,
Can with a fingle Look inflame

The coldest Breaft, the rudeft tame.

The Self Banish'd.

IT is not that I love you less

Than when before your Feet I lay:

But to prevent the fad Encrease

Of hopeless Love, I keep away.

In vain (alas!) for every Thing

Which I have known belong to you, Your Form does to my Fancy bring,

And makes my old Wounds bleed anew.

Who in the Spring, from the new Sun,
Already has a Fever got,

Too late begins thofe Shafts to fhun,

Which Phoebus thro' his Veins has shot;

Too late he wou'd the Pain affwage,
And to thick Shadows does retire;
About with him he bears the Rage,
And in his tainted Blood the Fire.

But vow'd I have, and never must
Your banish'd Servant trouble you:

For if I break, you may mistrust
The Vow I made to love you too.

SONG.

SONG.

Go, lovely Rofe,

Tell her that waftes her Time and me,

That now he knows,

When I resemble her to thee,

How sweet and fair fhe feems to be.

Tell her that's Young,

And fhuns to have her Graces fpy'd,
That hadft thou sprung

In Defarts, where no Men abide,

Thou must have uncommended dy'd.

Small is the Worth

Of Beauty from the Light retir'd;

Bid her come forth,

Suffer her felf to be defir'd,

And not blush so to be admir'd.

Then die, that fhe

The common Fate of all Things rare
May read in thee:

How fmall a Part of Time they share,
That are fo wond'rous sweet and fair.

THIRSIS,

THIRSIS, GALATE A.

Thir. AS lately I on filver Thames did ride,

Sad Galatea on the Bank I spy'd:

Such was her Look as Sorrow taught to shine,

And thus fhe grac'd me with a Voice divine.

Gal. You that can tune your founding Strings fo well, Of Ladies Beauties and of Love to tell;

Once change your Note, and let your Lute report

The juftest Grief that ever touch'd the Court.

Thir. Fair Nymph, I have in your Delights no Share,

Nor ought to be concerned in your Care:

Yet would I fing, if I your Sorrows knew,

And to my Aid invoke no Mufe but

you.

Gal. Hear then, and let your Song augment our Grief, Which is so great, as not to wifh Relief:

She that had all which Nature gives or Chance,
Whom Fortune join'd with Virtue to advance
To all the Joys this Ifland cou'd afford,
The greatest Mistress, and the kindest Lord:
Who with the Royal mixt her noble Blood,
And in high Grace with Gloriana stood;
Her Bounty, Sweetness, Beauty, Goodness, such,
That none e'er thought her Happiness too much;
So well inclin'd her Favours to confer,

And kind to all, as Heav'n had been to her:
The Virgin's part, the Mother, and the Wife,
So well fhe acted in this Span of Life,

That

That tho' few Years (too few alas!) fhe told,
She feem'd in all Things, but in Beauty, old.
As unripe Fruit, whofe verdant Stalks do cleave
Close to the Tree, which grieves no lefs to leave
The smiling Pendant which adorns her so,
And until Autumn, on the Bough fhou'd grow:
So feem'd her youthful Soul not eas❜ly forc'd,
Or from fo fair, fo fweet a Seat divorc❜d.
Her Fate at once did hasty seem and flow,
At once too cruel, and unwilling too.

Thir. Under how hard a Law are Mortals born!
Whom now we envy, we anon must mourn:
What Heav'n fets highest, and seems most to prize,
Is foon removed from our wond'ring Eyes.
But fince the Sifters did fo foon untwine
So fair a Thread, I'll strive to piece the Line.
Vouchsafe fad Nymph to let me know the Dame,
And to the Mufes I'll commend her Name;
Make the wide Country eccho to your Moan,
The lift'ning Trees and favage Mountains groan:
What Rock's not moved when the Death is fung
Of one fo good, fo lovely, and fo young?

Gal. 'Twas Hamilton, whom I had nam'd before,
But naming her, Grief lets me fay no more.

The