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Ostella Or the Faction of Love and Beauty Reconcil'd

By I. T. [i.e. John Tatham]
Tatham, John (fl. 1632-1664)

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Occasional Copies upon several SUBJECTS.
 
To a Mistris that told me, I could not live without her Love.
 
To a simply Coy Mistress.
 
To an imperiously proud Mistress, swell'd with my Praises.
 
Vpon the acquaintance of a Gallant Gentlewoman. To my self.
 
Crying and Laughing.
 
To Meritricia.
 
To Mistress S. W.
 
To Silvia
 
To a timorously willing Mistress.
 
Vpon my Noble friend, Richard Lovelace Esquire, his being in Holland. An Invitation.
 
To a Mistresse that thinks the sight without other enjoyment is Love sufficient.
 
To a vertuous Lady, on whom Envy had thrown a Scandal, for which she Mourned, and hung her Chamber with Blacks.
 
Spying Splendora through a Casement.
 
My Friend Paul Squire.
 
Seeing a Lady ------
 
An Occasional Frolick to an unknown Friend.
 
To a Gentlewoman that Loved me, and I not her.
 
Another upon the same.
 
A Dialogue.
 
To ------
 
To a Mistresse that bid me make another Choice.
 
To my self.
 
To the Deceiving Mistress.
 
To Cupid
 
Lycoris a Rapture.
 
Lycoris weeping.
 
A Smile.
 
To Mrs. J. H. upon my recovery of a fit of sickness.
 
To Mrs. I. H. upon the sight of a Marble Coverture or Statue in the Church.
 
A Frown.
 
Vpon my leaving off the Company of Hellena.
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Songs in a Masque.
 
A Prologue spoken at the Cock-pit, at the coming of the Red-Bull Players thither.
 
A Prologue spoken at the Red-Bull to a Play called the Whisperer, or what you please.
 
On the Report of Master William Lawes his Death.
 
To my Mother, Mris. Dorothy Tatham, one of the Daughters of Christopher Percy of Manson in the County of Dorset, Esquire, then Iustice of Peace and Quorum, and High Sheriff of that County.
 
Vpon the Death of my Father.
 
Song.
 
To Cupid.
 
To the ------

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76

To an imperiously proud Mistress, swell'd with my Praises.

Frail Beauty, boast not of that Face,
to which I gave the perfect'st Grace:
For leaving me, thou must resigne,
That Glory which I made Divine.
Thou art no longer fair, than thou art mine.
Though Nature might thee lovely call,
I made thee super-natural;
Set on thy Fate so pure a form,
That neither Age, nor Death by storm,
could ever do the virtue of it harm.
Our knowing sense, tels us the Grave,
shall swallow whate'r Nature gave;
Her own Philosophy hath said,
She cann't preserve what she hath made,
for which her self, her self she doth invade,
When I that did such Beauty give,
by the same pow'r can make it live,
My praise out-did thy Mothers care,
No Art but mine, could make thee fair,
the pow'r of Love then made my Fancy rare.
Prize me, I will reverse thy Doom,
and bring thy ruin'd Beauty home
To that Supream Felicity,
Affection first conferr'd on thee:
Love me, and live to all Eternity.
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