Miscellany Poems By Tho. Heyrick |
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On a Flea presented to a Lady, whose Breast it had bitten, in a Golden Wire, Extempore. 1679.
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On a Flea presented to a Lady, whose Breast it had bitten, in a Golden Wire, Extempore. 1679.
(by Mr. Joshua Barnes.)
—Here, Madam, take this Humble Slave,
Once vile,—But, since your blood is in him, Brave!
I saw him surfet on your Lovely Breast;
And snatch'd the Traytor from that precious Feast.
For his Attempt sure He by me had dy'd;
But the respect, I bore your Blood deny'd.
The Gods forbid, fair Madam, that by me
Your Blood be shed althô in this poor Flea!—
'Twas Sacrilege in him those Drops to draw;
But now that Treasure in his skin doth ly,
It consecrates his Life and strikes an awe;
That no bold Nayl dare make the Traytor dy.
Nay if a Quaff of Nectar once could make
Mankind Immortal, as the Poets feign,
This Flea can never dy for that Drops sake,
Which he hath suck'd, sweet Madam, from your Vein.
At least—no human Power his life can spill,
(Which lyes in your pure blood, that can't decay:)
But You, whose Property's to save and kill,
As you did lend that Blood, may take't away.
Then lo!—this Royal Slave in chains of Gold,
Here I submit most humbly to your doom:
Either let Mercy him your Prisoner hold,
Or let your Ivory Nayl prepare his Tomb!
Oh! could he speak, I'm sure the Wretch would crave
A Prisoner's life, to be confin'd with You:
Nay he could be content to meet his Grave;
If by your Hand death might to him accrue.
Go, happy Flea! for now to One you go,
Gives Bliss, if She's your Friend, and Glory, if your Foe!
Once vile,—But, since your blood is in him, Brave!
I saw him surfet on your Lovely Breast;
And snatch'd the Traytor from that precious Feast.
For his Attempt sure He by me had dy'd;
But the respect, I bore your Blood deny'd.
The Gods forbid, fair Madam, that by me
Your Blood be shed althô in this poor Flea!—
'Twas Sacrilege in him those Drops to draw;
But now that Treasure in his skin doth ly,
It consecrates his Life and strikes an awe;
That no bold Nayl dare make the Traytor dy.
Nay if a Quaff of Nectar once could make
Mankind Immortal, as the Poets feign,
This Flea can never dy for that Drops sake,
Which he hath suck'd, sweet Madam, from your Vein.
At least—no human Power his life can spill,
(Which lyes in your pure blood, that can't decay:)
But You, whose Property's to save and kill,
As you did lend that Blood, may take't away.
Then lo!—this Royal Slave in chains of Gold,
Here I submit most humbly to your doom:
Either let Mercy him your Prisoner hold,
Or let your Ivory Nayl prepare his Tomb!
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A Prisoner's life, to be confin'd with You:
Nay he could be content to meet his Grave;
If by your Hand death might to him accrue.
Go, happy Flea! for now to One you go,
Gives Bliss, if She's your Friend, and Glory, if your Foe!
| Miscellany Poems | |