Pocula Castalia The Authors Motto. Fortunes Tennis-Ball. Eliza. Poems. Epigrams. &c. By R. B. [i.e Robert Baron] |
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To Eliza, with my Cyprian Academy.
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 | Pocula Castalia |  |
To Eliza, with my Cyprian Academy.
Lady,
Now hath the Youthfull Spring unbound
The Icie fetters of the Ground,
And ransom'd Flora from beneath
The frosty Prison of the Earth.
Fresh cloaths of State she spreads upon
The Downes, in hope you'l walke thereon,
And many fair flowers she doth create
Your fair cheeks to imitate,
Then borrowes perfumes for her Birth
From the Spicery of your Breath.
The Icie fetters of the Ground,
And ransom'd Flora from beneath
The frosty Prison of the Earth.
Fresh cloaths of State she spreads upon
The Downes, in hope you'l walke thereon,
And many fair flowers she doth create
Your fair cheeks to imitate,
Then borrowes perfumes for her Birth
From the Spicery of your Breath.
Shall I more barren than the thick
Element be? no, I'm more quick,
When she but leaves, see! fruits I bring,
Though scarce (I fear) well rellishing.
Their only excuse is, they be
Early, in the yeers Infancy.
Even tender Weeds 'mong Sallads passe,
And young things claime to prettinesse.
These clusters, if yet sowre of tast,
(As being somewhat too soon Prest,
And nipt with many an envious blast)
Thus still may hope maturity,
From the kind sunshine of your eye.
Daign but to gild them with one Ray,
And evry sprig shall turn a Bay
Green as that coy one. And I'l dare
To swear they're good when yours they are;
In you and shrines Divinity dwells
That hallowes all your utensills.
So I may hope too your sweet Power
Might make even me good were I
Element be? no, I'm more quick,
When she but leaves, see! fruits I bring,
Though scarce (I fear) well rellishing.
Their only excuse is, they be
Early, in the yeers Infancy.
Even tender Weeds 'mong Sallads passe,
And young things claime to prettinesse.
87
(As being somewhat too soon Prest,
And nipt with many an envious blast)
Thus still may hope maturity,
From the kind sunshine of your eye.
Daign but to gild them with one Ray,
And evry sprig shall turn a Bay
Green as that coy one. And I'l dare
To swear they're good when yours they are;
In you and shrines Divinity dwells
That hallowes all your utensills.
So I may hope too your sweet Power
Might make even me good were I
Your R. B.
| Pocula Castalia | |