 | Poems |  |
70
To my Rivall.
Hence vaine intruder, hast away,Wash not with thy unhallowed brine
The foot-steps of my Celia's shrine;
Nor on her purer Altars lay
Thy empty words, accents that may
Some looser Dame to love encline;
She must have offerings more divine;
Such pearlie drops, as youthfull May,
Scatters before the rising day;
Such smooth soft language, as each line
Might stroake an angry God, or stay
Joves thunder, make the hearers pine
With envie; doe this, thou shalt he
Servant to her, Rivall with me.
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