 | Poems |  |
A Pastorall Court-ship.
Faire Iulia let the heat of LoveWhich within thy Heart does move,
And there is lodg'd as in its Sphere,
Still from thine eyes each brinie teare,
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And never teach thy eyes to weep,
But when some transcendent joy
Does thy glutted senses cloy.
Thou art Natures Magazine,
Or her casket rather, in
Whose narrow precincts she hath pent
The treasure that both Indies sent:
I'th closets of thy lips she locks
The blushing Rubies of the Rocks:
In the store-house of each eye
Her refulgent Diamonds lie:
In thy teeth her pearle she puts,
And in each veine a Saphire shuts:
Thy haire containes the gold o'th West:
Thy breath the spices of the East:
And o're thy skins faire Margent's drawn
A curtaine of the finest Lawn:
So that those Lillies sweet, which dare
With thee in whitenesse to compare,
To expiate so black a sin,
Want white to do their penance in,
And their vanquish'd heads do bow,
In veneration of thy brow.
See how the flowers and plants combine,
And their od'rous leaves untwine,
That in those sweet Exchecquers they
May that stock of spices lay,
Which (like Easterne winds) thy breath
Does to'th perfum'd ayre bequeath.
Canst thou these drooping flowers faire
With thy powerfull beames repaire,
And animate? and shall not I
Light a flame up at thine eye?
See how those Diamonds are dismaid,
With which thy bosome is arraid,
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From the Chrysolites of thy eyes,
Does transcend their feeble light,
And look as drowsie, as if night
Lay hid in them, and will, I feare,
Each melt into an envious teare:
Canst thou thaw these, and shall not I
With those teares that either eye
From their brinie Springs impart,
Melt the hardnesse of thy heart?
If thou art barren in desire,
And canst not burne in equall fire,
Those sighs which from my bosome flow,
A flame throughout my brest shall blow;
And those frequent tears Ile shed
From the cisternes of my head,
Shall so manure thy heart, thou'lt be
Fruitfull straight in love like me.
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