Pocula Castalia The Authors Motto. Fortunes Tennis-Ball. Eliza. Poems. Epigrams. &c. By R. B. [i.e Robert Baron] |
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81
Upon the first sight of ELIZA, Masked.
When her saint Metaphore, Heavens radiant eye
Puts his black Velvet Mask of darknesse by
And freely shines, those Statues of live Jet
I'th' Eastern shores half pickled up in sweat
Adore his Lustre; but they never bow
Whilst Clouds case up and night-cap his fair Brow:
So when mine eyes first reacht her, she (alas!)
Was Mask'd, and Ignorant I by did passe
Without adoring, when such Shrines as hers
May make Saints croud to be Idolaters.
Puts his black Velvet Mask of darknesse by
And freely shines, those Statues of live Jet
I'th' Eastern shores half pickled up in sweat
Adore his Lustre; but they never bow
Whilst Clouds case up and night-cap his fair Brow:
So when mine eyes first reacht her, she (alas!)
Was Mask'd, and Ignorant I by did passe
Without adoring, when such Shrines as hers
May make Saints croud to be Idolaters.
When Lady-like Loadstones in boxes cas'd
I've sometimes seen neer Iron wedges plac't
The am'rous metall wav'd, and still crept neer,
As if it knew its Love were shrined there.
I felt this sympathy, and in my breast
(Like a stray Bird now fluttering near his Neast,
Or like the Needle) my warm'd Heart did hover,
As who would say, the North I do discover,
The Center, cease then 'mongst the Rocks to steer
Thy course, but fix with presporous Omens here.
I've sometimes seen neer Iron wedges plac't
82
As if it knew its Love were shrined there.
I felt this sympathy, and in my breast
(Like a stray Bird now fluttering near his Neast,
Or like the Needle) my warm'd Heart did hover,
As who would say, the North I do discover,
The Center, cease then 'mongst the Rocks to steer
Thy course, but fix with presporous Omens here.
Now with devouter eyes I lookt agen,
But her black veil not drawn, thus (thought I then)
Thus Angels Pictures in the Sacred Quire
Are veild to raise our adoration higher.
But her black veil not drawn, thus (thought I then)
Thus Angels Pictures in the Sacred Quire
Are veild to raise our adoration higher.
Still (fair one) for the common good thus shroud
Your beames in waving curl, or silken cloud,
Or you'l scorch more than Phaeton with one Ray,
Whose shine might send the Cime'rans a Day.
Each Heart an Ætna, evry man must turn
A Salamander, and even living burn.
Blind as wag Cupid your refulgency
(As it did his) will strike each daring eye.
Myriads on each side as you walk must fall
As spurious Eaglets fore your Emblem Sol.
Thus you'd with looks Philosophy controul
And Fate, and leave the world without a Soul,
Or prove (which I confesse, since I was hit)
This all hath but one soul, and you are it.
Your beames in waving curl, or silken cloud,
Or you'l scorch more than Phaeton with one Ray,
Whose shine might send the Cime'rans a Day.
Each Heart an Ætna, evry man must turn
A Salamander, and even living burn.
Blind as wag Cupid your refulgency
(As it did his) will strike each daring eye.
Myriads on each side as you walk must fall
As spurious Eaglets fore your Emblem Sol.
Thus you'd with looks Philosophy controul
And Fate, and leave the world without a Soul,
Or prove (which I confesse, since I was hit)
This all hath but one soul, and you are it.
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