Thalia Rediviva The Pass-times and Diversions of a Countrey-muse, In Choice Poems on several Occasions. With Some Learned Remains of the Eminent Eugenius Philalethes. Never made Publick till now [by Henry Vaughan] |
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FIDA: Or The Country-beauty: to Lysimachus.
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 | Thalia Rediviva |  |
FIDA: Or The Country-beauty: to Lysimachus.
Now I have seen her; And by Cupid
The young Medusa made me stupid!
A face, that hath no Lovers stain,
Wants forces, and is near disdain.
For every Fop will freely peep
At Majesty that is asleep.
But she (fair Tyrant!) hates to be
Gaz'd on with such impunity.
Whose prudent Rigor bravely bears
And scorns the trick of whining tears:
Or sighs, those false All-arms of grief,
Which kill not, but afford relief.
Nor is it thy hard fate to be
Alone in this Calamity,
Since I who came but to be gone,
Am plagu'd for meerly looking on.
The young Medusa made me stupid!
A face, that hath no Lovers stain,
Wants forces, and is near disdain.
For every Fop will freely peep
At Majesty that is asleep.
But she (fair Tyrant!) hates to be
Gaz'd on with such impunity.
Whose prudent Rigor bravely bears
And scorns the trick of whining tears:
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Which kill not, but afford relief.
Nor is it thy hard fate to be
Alone in this Calamity,
Since I who came but to be gone,
Am plagu'd for meerly looking on.
Mark from her forhead to her foot
What charming Sweets are there to do't.
A Head adorn'd with all those glories
That Witt hath shadow'd in quaint stories:
Or pencill with rich colours drew
In imitation of the true.
What charming Sweets are there to do't.
A Head adorn'd with all those glories
That Witt hath shadow'd in quaint stories:
Or pencill with rich colours drew
In imitation of the true.
Her Hair lay'd out in curious Setts
And Twists, doth shew like silken Nets,
Where (since he play'd at Hitt or Miss:)
The God of Love her pris'ner is,
And fluttering with his skittish Wings
Puts all her locks in Curls and Rings.
And Twists, doth shew like silken Nets,
Where (since he play'd at Hitt or Miss:)
The God of Love her pris'ner is,
And fluttering with his skittish Wings
Puts all her locks in Curls and Rings.
Like twinkling Stars her Eyes invite
All gazers to so sweet a light,
But then two arched Clouds of brown
stand o're, and guard them with a frown.
All gazers to so sweet a light,
But then two arched Clouds of brown
stand o're, and guard them with a frown.
Beneath these rayes of her bright Eyes
Beautie's rich Bed of blushes lyes.
Blushes, which lightning-like come on,
Yet stay not to be gaz'd upon;
But leave the Lilies of her Skin
As fair as ever, and run in:
Like swift Salutes (which dull paint scorn,)
Twixt a white noon, and Crimson Morne.
Beautie's rich Bed of blushes lyes.
Blushes, which lightning-like come on,
Yet stay not to be gaz'd upon;
But leave the Lilies of her Skin
As fair as ever, and run in:
Like swift Salutes (which dull paint scorn,)
Twixt a white noon, and Crimson Morne.
What Corall can her Lips resemble?
For hers are warm, swell, melt and tremble:
And if you dare contend for Red,
This is alive, the other dead.
For hers are warm, swell, melt and tremble:
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This is alive, the other dead.
Her equal Teeth (above, below:)
All of a Cise, and Smoothness grow.
Where under close restraint and awe
(Which is the Maiden, Tyrant law:)
Like a cag'd, sullen Linnet, dwells.
Her Tongue, the Key to potent spells.
All of a Cise, and Smoothness grow.
Where under close restraint and awe
(Which is the Maiden, Tyrant law:)
Like a cag'd, sullen Linnet, dwells.
Her Tongue, the Key to potent spells.
Her Skin, like heav'n when calm and bright,
Shews a rich azure under white,
With touch more soft than heart supposes,
And Breath as sweet as new blown Roses.
Shews a rich azure under white,
With touch more soft than heart supposes,
And Breath as sweet as new blown Roses.
Betwixt this Head-land and the Main,
Which is a rich and flowry Plain:
Lyes her fair Neck, so fine and slender
That (gently) how you please, 'twill bend her.
Which is a rich and flowry Plain:
Lyes her fair Neck, so fine and slender
That (gently) how you please, 'twill bend her.
This leads you to her Heart, which ta'ne
Pants under Sheets of whitest Lawn,
And at the first seems much distrest,
But nobly treated, lyes at rest.
Pants under Sheets of whitest Lawn,
And at the first seems much distrest,
But nobly treated, lyes at rest.
Here like two Balls of new fall'n snow,
Her Breasts, Loves native pillows grow;
And out of each a Rose-bud Peeps
Which Infant beauty sucking, sleeps.
Say now my Stoic, that mak'st soure faces
Her Breasts, Loves native pillows grow;
And out of each a Rose-bud Peeps
Which Infant beauty sucking, sleeps.
At all the Beauties and the Graces,
That criest unclean! though known thy self
To ev'ry coorse, and dirty shelfe:
Could'st thou but see a piece like this,
A piece so full of Sweets and bliss:
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Would'st thou not swear she is a witch?
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