Wit A Sporting In a pleasant Grove Of New Fancies ::

Then thy externall beautie, which no time
Shall ere deface, and that is truly thine.
Though outward white, grac'd with an inward faire,
Vnite in one, exceedeth all compare.
For what may glorious Saints, whose divine feature
Immortalis'd above an human Creature,
Appropriate unto themselves save this,
Though they're invested with the roabe of bliss!
Pure is their Store, the State of innocence,
Full be their Lamps of divine influence,
Complete's their Armour, and their order too,
“Thus they attend the Lambe where ere he go.
And thou terrestriall Angel, who canst give,
(Though young) example to the old to live,
Divines what thou shalt be: for I do see,
All sacred Craces treasured in thee;
As in some curious artful Cabbinet,
Where Patience shines as a rich Iewellet
Set in a precious Tablet, which may be best
Allusion have to thy unspoted brest,
Where vettues have their Mansion: should I speak
More freely of thy Merits? I wil seek

No modern Model to conform the State
Of my affections, or will imitate,
Any with affectation, but that grace
Which thou reserves in action, speech & pace.
Honor of ages, what a Sympathie
Of soul inthroning vertues works in thee,
To make thee more affected! Where desire
Of moderation tempers the heat of ire;
Content all self-repining, and delight
To see another prosper, that base spite
Which worldly Moles express from day to day
In seeing others flourish more then they.
No, thou art earthly Sainted, & canst taste
What fruit's in Mundane pleasure being past,
When this same Circle of our humane bless
Quite ran about, shal end with wretchednes;
And is not this above th'conceit of man,
That thou the weaker Sex shold seem to span
This abstract of thy life, with such respect
Unto thy soul form'd by that Architect,
Whose glory is thy aim? Nay, that thy prime
Scarcely arriv'd at the freshness of her time,
Should so disvalue earth, as to bestow
Thy heart on heaven thy frayler part below.
Where life like to a shade, whose vading glory
Suns up our discontents as in a Story,
Gets disesteem with thee, fixing thine eye

Upon a more transcendant Emperie.
But that which shal extend thy days more long
Then time can limit, is thy suffring wrong,
Smiling at injuries, as if thy brest
Were of that temper, griefs could not molest,
Nor soil her glorious Mansion, but appears
More eminent by th'injuries she bears.
I've heard indeed, som womans nature's such
As they can hardly ever bear too much;
The sense whereof, hows'ere our Criticks take it,
May be confirm'd in thee; for thou dost make it
The Trophy of thy triumph, and the crown
Of all thy conquest, to be onely known
Thy self in thy affliction, where relief
In Souls sole solace gives receit to grief.
For Palms prest down do ever rise the more,
And Spices bruis'd smel sweeter then before:
So as this sentence verifide may bee,
Thou tryes afflion, not affliction thee.
Mirror of women, what a triumphs this,
When there is nought, how great soere it is,
That can depress thy mind below the Sphere
Where it is fixed! For tis this I swear,
And only this which moves me to affect
Thy self far more then any light respect,
Drawn from the tincture of a moving faire,

Which to mindes Beautie's short above compare.
For I have known the smoothest sleekest skin
Soild with the blemish of so foul a sin,
As Beautie lost her lustre by that stain,
Which once made black could nere be white again,
But thou in both complete, art such an one,
As without assentation there is none
May glory more of what she doth possess,
Though on my Knowledg none doth glory less.
And happy he if he had known his hap,
Who might repose in such a Ladies lap,
Secure from cenusre; but how weak is sence
When Reason's darkned through concupiscence!
Alas of error, that our humane eye,
Expos'd to lust and boundless libertie,
Should derogate from man; where if we knew
How woman's to expect from man her dew,
As man from woman; we shold straight infer
‘To think of a strange beauty is to err.
He who did till those flowrie fields, which lay
Like Adons grove neer to the milkie way,
If he had known what happiness it is
In mutual love t'injoy a mutual bliss,
Where tvvo dividuate souls do selfly move

By one united Sympathie in love;
He vvould have thus concluded sure I am,
Who dotes on more then's own is less then man.
But novv to thee my lines their love extend,
Making thy self their Centre vvhere they end.
‘Thou mildest mould of matron modesty,
‘Live as thou liv'st, and gain eternity;
Patience shall give thee convoy, fame, renovvn,
Both vvhich contend to reach thee triumphs crovvn.

University of Virginia Library

The Widdow Bride.

To the accomplish'd Lady of his thoughts.