 | Men-Miracles |  |
To my Lady Ch.
Madam,
Arriv'd at Oxford we can sadly view,How much they suffer who are snatch'd from you:
Yet thus depriv'd, we still reserve some sence,
Though we leave you, we bring your favours thence.
Your bounty still dispens,d, appear'd still new,
As if that bounty like your Beauty grew,
Each meale appear'd a Herd, and so well stor'd,
As we had seene whole pastures on your Board.
Nor were they single meales, for where you dine
The Table's Altar, and the Parlour shrine,
There th'Oxe as blesst as in the Temple dies,
And joyes when he is made your sacrifice.
And when fate chast Doves to your charger drives,
There falls more Innocent then were their lives.
Your feast now ended, Madam, all's not past,
You feed your Eyes as you have fed our Tast.
Clouds wrought so nicely we had sworne 'twould raine,
But that your Beauty drew all up againe.
84
Astronomers need seeke no other Spheare.
Your Needle casts that sky with so rich grace,
As if your Copy meant to excell the face.
And now we climbe two stories height to see
How large Art proves in her Epitome,
A Closet where no fucus comes, no Paint,
To daube a Fury, and create a Saint,
No bought Complexion there, no such sage Plot,
As where the good face lies i'th Gally Pot.
Bookes are the Objects there, and yet none ly
Like famous Palmerin, or stout Sir Guy.
No doubty Don Quixote, like those that fight,
With Warlike Wind mill, and then rise up Knight.
The Bookes are pious, and their owners are
Themselves professers, Beauties of the Chaire.
Now after these we saw, but there we breake,
They see not Wonders who can see and speake.
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