 | The Shorter Poems of Ralph Knevet |  |
[27] To Mr. PHILIP WOODHOUSE.
Methought I stood that sacred fountaine nightWhere high conceites in blessed draughts are lent
Whose cristall brest seem'd sudainly to rent
And when a Nimph of rarest majestie.
Whose hayre seem'd Gold, and skinne cleare Ivorie,
Upon her browes an Arch of bayes was bent,
Her presence taught even Trees to complement.
For all the Laurells bow'd, and modestie,
With a low voice, seem'd, to give suffrage free,
To make her Empresse of faire Helicon.
With that I heard a grone, which seem'd to be
Sent from the urnes, of Poets dead and gone,
Whose Ghostes envy'd this peerelesse Ladies grace.
That should them all in loftie straines surpasse,
Mistake me not (I thinke) your Muse was shee,
That like this Sylvane Nymphe appear'd to me.
| The Shorter Poems of Ralph Knevet | |