I am thy slave then; let me know, Hard Master, the great task I have to do: Who pride and scorn do undergo,
In tempests and rough Seas thy Galleys row; They pant, and groan, and sigh, but find Their sighs encrease the angry wind.
Like an Egyptian Tyrant, some Thou weariest out, in building but a Tomb. Others with sad and tedious art, Labour 'the' Quarries of a stony Heart; Of all the works thou dost assign, To all the several slaves of thine, Employ me, mighty Love, to dig the Mine.
'LL on; for what should hinder me
From Loving, and Enjoying Thee?
Thou canst not those exceptions make,
Which vulgar sordid Mortals take,
That my Fate's too mean and low;
"Twere pity I should love thee so,
If that dull cause could hinder me
In Loving, and Enjoying thee.
Rather then lose what does so near
Concern my Life and Being here,
I'll some such crooked ways invent,
As you, or your Fore-fathers went :
I'll flatter or oppose the King,
Turn Puritan, or Any Thing;
I'll force my Mind to arts so new:
Grow Rich, and Love as well as You.
But rather thus let me remain,
As Man in Paradise did reign;
When perfect Love did so agree
With Innocence and Povertie.
Adam did no Joynture give,
Himself was foynture to his Eve:
Untoucht with Av'arice yet or Pride,
The Rib came freely back to 'his side.
A curse upon the man who taught
Women, that Love was to be bought;
Rather dote only on your Gold;
And that with greedy av'arice hold;
For if Woman too submit
To that, and sell her self for it,
Fond Lover, you a Mistress have
Of her, that's but your Fellow-slave.
What should those Poets mean of old
That made their God to woo in Gold?
Of all men sure They had no cause
To bind Love to such costly Laws;
And yet I scarcely blame them now;
For who, alas, would not allow,
That Women should such gifts receive,
Could They, as He, Be what They give.
If thou, my Dear, Thy self shouldst prize,
Alas, what value would suffize?
The Spaniard could not do't, though he
Should to both Indies joyntare thee.
Thy beauties therefore wrong will take,
If thou shouldst any bargain make;
To give All will befit thee well;
But not at Under-Rates to sell.
Bestow thy Beauty then on me,
Freely, as Nature gave't to Thee;
'Tis an exploded Popish thought
To think that Heaven may be bought.
Pray'rs, Hymns, and Praises are the way;
And those my thankful Muse shall pay ;
Thy Body in my verse enshrin'd,
Shall grow immortal as thy Mind.
I'll fix thy title next in fame
To Sacharissas well-sung name.
So faithfully will I declare
What all thy wondrous beauties are,
That when at the last great Assise,
All Women shall together rise,
Men strait shall cast their eyes on Thee
And know at first that Thou art She.
Hough you be absent here, I needs must say
The Trees as beauteous are, and flowers as gay,
As ever they were wont to be;
Nay the Birds rural musick too
Is as melodious and free,
As if they sung to pleasure you :
I saw a Rose-Bud o'pe this morn; I'll swear
The blushing Morning open'd not more fair.
How could it be so fair, and you away ?
How could the Trees be beauteous, Flowers so gay ?
Could they remember but last year,
How you did Them, They you delight,
The sprouting leaves which saw you here,
And call'd their Fellows to the sight,
Would, looking round for the same sight in vain,
Creep back into their silent Barks again.
Where ere you walk'd trees were as reverend made,
As when of old Gods dwelt in every shade.
Is't possible they should not know,
What loss of honor they sustain,
That thus they smile and flourish now,
And still their former pride retain?
Dull Creatures! 'tis not without Cause that she,
Who fled the God of wit, was made a Tree.
In ancient times sure they much wiser were,
When they rejoyc'd the Thracian verse to hear;
In vain did Nature bid them stay,
When Orpheus had his song begun,
They call'd their wondring roots away,
And bad them silent to him run.
How would those learned trees have followed you?
You would have drawn Them, and their Poet too.
But who can blame them now? for, since you're gone,
They're here the only Fair, and Shine alone.
You did their Natural Rights invade;
Where ever you did walk or sit,
The thickest Boughs could make no shade,
Although the Sun had granted it:
The fairest Flowers could please no more, neer you,
Then Painted Flowers, set next to them, could do.
When e're then you come hither, that shall be
The time, which this to others is, to Me.
The little joys which here are now,
The name of Punishments do bear;
When by their sight they let us know
How we depriv'd of greater are.
'Tis you the best of Seasons with you bring; This is for Beasts, and that for Men the Spring.
Written in Juice of Lemmon.
Hilst what I write I do not see,
I dare thus, even to you, write Poetry. Ah foolish Muse, which do'st so high aspire, And know'st her judgment well
How much it does thy power excel,
Yet dar'st be read by, thy just doom, the Fire.
Alas, thou think'st thy self secure,
Because thy form is Innocent and Pure:
Like Hypocrites, which seem unspotted here;
But when they sadly come to dye,
And the last Fire their Truth must try,
Scrauld o're like thee, and blotted they appear.
Go then, but reverently go,
And, since thou needs must sin, confess it too :
Confess't, and with humility clothe thy shame;
For thou, who else must burned be
An Heretick, if she pardon thee,
May'st like a Martyr then enjoy the Flame.
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