 | The poems of John Marston |  |
Sweete glories of your sex, know yt yor eyes
makes milde the roughest planet of the skies,
Even wee the Lorde yt Sitts in Ebon throanes,
circled wth sighes & discontented groanes
are forc'd at yor faire presence to relent,
att yor approach all Saturns force is spent,
Now breakes my bandes, now sadnes leaues theis towrs
Now all are turn'd to Floras smiling bowers,
Then now giue way, now is my bondage due
only to those who basely envy yow
Hence solitary Beldam, sinke to nighte
I giue vp all to Joye, & to Delight,
And now passe on all happye making Dame,
O coulde you but imagin what a flame
of many joyes nowe in theire bosomes shyne
who counte it theire deerst honor to be thine,
you woulde aueer to number them who seekes
must sure inuent some newe Arithmetiq;s
for who to caste theire reconings takes in hande
hadd neede for counters take the Ocean sande
Theire service is your right yor loue their due
who only loue themselues for loving you
Theire Pallace waites you wth so harty gate
Man cannot vtter, or Godes scarce relate
Then passed the whole troupe to the house: vntill the Countesse hadd mounted the staires to the greate Chamber, on the topp of wch Merimna haveing chaunged hir habitt all to white mett her & whilst a consorte softely played spake thus.
makes milde the roughest planet of the skies,
Even wee the Lorde yt Sitts in Ebon throanes,
circled wth sighes & discontented groanes
are forc'd at yor faire presence to relent,
att yor approach all Saturns force is spent,
196
Now all are turn'd to Floras smiling bowers,
Then now giue way, now is my bondage due
only to those who basely envy yow
Hence solitary Beldam, sinke to nighte
I giue vp all to Joye, & to Delight,
And now passe on all happye making Dame,
O coulde you but imagin what a flame
of many joyes nowe in theire bosomes shyne
who counte it theire deerst honor to be thine,
you woulde aueer to number them who seekes
must sure inuent some newe Arithmetiq;s
for who to caste theire reconings takes in hande
hadd neede for counters take the Ocean sande
Theire service is your right yor loue their due
who only loue themselues for loving you
Theire Pallace waites you wth so harty gate
Man cannot vtter, or Godes scarce relate
Then passed the whole troupe to the house: vntill the Countesse hadd mounted the staires to the greate Chamber, on the topp of wch Merimna haveing chaunged hir habitt all to white mett her & whilst a consorte softely played spake thus.
| The poems of John Marston | |