Poems, and phancies written By the Thrice Noble, Illustrious, And Excellent Princess The Lady Marchioness of Newcastle [i.e. Margaret Cavendish]. The Second Impression, much Altered and Corrected |
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The Temple of Fortune.
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 | Poems, and phancies |  |
The Temple of Fortune.
This Temple was Built of Cornelian Red,To signifie that there much Blood was shed;
The Altars all were Carv'd of Aggat-stone,
And Musk-flies there were Sacrifiz'd upon;
A Priest there was, who Sung Her Praises Loud,
Whereat the People Kneel'd all in a Crowd:
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Yet she her Hearing hath most perfectly;
The Steeple was Black, Built of Mourning Jet,
And Carved finely with many a Fret;
The Bells were Nightingals Tongues, which did Ring
As Sweetly, as they in the Spring do Sing;
Their Holy Fire was made of sweetest Spice,
And kept by Virgins young, that know no Vice;
Their Gods sometimes did they place in a Bower,
Which curiously was made of Gesamin Flower;
And all her Sacred Groves, in which she Walks,
Are set with Roses which do Grow on Stalks:
Thus in Procession Her about they bear,
And none but in Devotion cometh there:
The King and Queen did wait where She did go,
And all about sweet Incense they did Strow;
Nature did Frown, to see her so Respected,
Thought by these Honours she was much Rejected;
Wherefore, says Nature, let me take the place,
And let not Fortune Proud me thus Out-face,
When all that's Good, you do receive from me,
She is my Vassal Low, you soon shall see;
For I with Virtues do the Mind inspire,
And Cloath the Soul in Beautifull attire;
The Body equal I do make, and Strong,
The Heart with Courage, to Revenge a wrong;
I'th' Brain Invention, Wit, and Judgment lies,
Creating like a God, Ord'ring as Wise;
The Senses all as Perfectly are made,
To Hear, to See, Taste, Touch, Smell and Perswade;
I'th' Soul do Passions and Affections Live,
Nothing is there but what my Pow'r doth give,
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And She doth in perpetual Motion go:
Thus all Invention from my Power comes;
For Arts in Men are but by Scraps and Crums;
So Fate and Fortune are my Handmaids sure,
For what they do shall never long endure;
And I throughout the World do make things Range,
And Constant am in nothing but in Change;
Then let your Worship of Blind Fortune fall,
Or else shall my Displeasure Bury all.
But false Devotion unto Men is Sweet,
While Truth's Kickt out, and Trodden under Feet;
Their Minds do Ebb and Flow just like the Tide,
And what is to be done is Cast aside:
This makes that Men are never in the way,
But wander up and down like Sheep astray.
O wretched Man! that can in Peace not be;
For with himself he cannot well agree;
Sometimes he Hates, what he before did prove,
And in a constant Course doth never move;
Nor to himself, nor God, who's Good, can stay,
But always seeking is some unknown way;
No sad Example he by Warning takes,
If none will do him hurt, He mischief makes;
As if afraid in Happiness to Live,
He to himself a deadly Wound will give.
But why do I Complain that Man is Bad,
Since what he has, or is, from me he had?
Not only Man, the World, but Gods also,
And nothing Greater than my Self I know;
All this did make them take High Fortune down,
And in Her Room they did Great Nature Crown.
| Poems, and phancies | |