ODE XIX.
[I doe not feele the Storme]
1
I doe not feele the Storme
Which vexes you in the too soone Decay
Of your fair garden's verdure; where noe Spray
Lookes green, noe Flower
But run into his root.
Your fruit trees lower;
You cannot set your foot
In all your Garden on a liveing worme.
2
The glorie of your Toyle,
The high-pris'd Tulip, has noe Colour now;
The Gilly-flowers are dead; the Rose can show
Nor Red nor Smell,
T' envite the willing Sence.
Who now can tell
The violet's residence?
The Sweet-briar drye, the Lillie has noe foyle.
3
When I, beyond the Rage
Of Time, or winter's malice, now can Show
A liveing Paradice, and lead you through
Greene Alleys, set
With ever-verdant flowers;
The violet
Wants odour to the worst of ours;
Trim Nature stands here in firme Equipage.
4
I have a Rose, will keepe
Its Secret and beautie to another Spring;
(Nor wonder that I say it) I can bring,
This verie Day,
(Dead winter haveing nipt
Yours into Clay)
A goodly Tulip, Stript
In Gold and Purple; Nature not asleepe.
5
How doe they drop away!
Your flowers and Ioyes together? Goe with me
Into Apolloe's Garden, you shall see
To mocke at yours,
And frustrate all your Thought,
A bed of Flowers,
Into quaint Mazes wrought;
The Muses' bower, vnder the liveing Bay.
