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The NEW-YEAR'S GIFT.
1677.
To the same.
My
Rent is paid; but something is behind;
There I was just, but here I must be kind.
Th' expression suits with voluntary things;
And such are Presents, altho made to Kings,
'Tis true they honour us, when they receive,
But still it shows a kindness when we give.
Of all your New-year's-gifts mine is the least;
Yet none gives better, than who gives his best.
As I were studying what this best might be;
Intranc'd I fell into an Extasie.
I 'spi'd i'th' Airy Region, from a far,
A shining thing shoot like a falling Star.
As it drew nearer my astonisht sight,
Still did it bigger seem, and still more bright.
So dazling fierce its neighb'ring glories grew;
Mine Eyes I hid, unable for the view.
Wip'd thrice with some soft thing, I was so bold
To look what't were; and found it downy Gold:
The lining of the Wing of my bright Guest
A young and glitt'ring form, all heav'nly drest.
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It else would melt the Chrystal of thine Eye,
And work effects so contrary—Its light
Would cloud thy sickling beams with lasting night.
Hail off-spring of the Morning, I did cry!
Or art thou not Aurora's self, said I?
Or some Angelic-form, that hath put on
The Veil of that fair Sex? Know I am none
Of all thy flatt'ring ghesses, then it said;
Yet, tho so bright, I'm but to them a shade.
One that attends upon the Thespian Quires
Design'd to warm thy breast with nobler fires;
To rule thy Fancy, heighten thy Desires.
The Heav'nly-Muse I am, whom thou dost wrong,
Imploying me in every idle Song.
I was forsaking thee; and now would go;
But for the Lady thou art writing to.
To her I'le from the Muses's service run:
By her those shining Ladies are out-shone;
And yet they are Daughters of the Sun.
A New-years-gift thou want'st. Let me be it;
Or I'll condemn thee to the dearth of Wit.
Seis'd shall thine Humour and thy Fancy be
As forfeited; for both belong to me:
But if thou wilt me with her service grace,
Henceforth imploying me to sing her praise,
I'll from Apollo's Daphne get the Bayes.
No with'ring Springs, but such as shall have root;
Whose living wreaths about thy brows shall shoot.
Thus, Madam, I cut-doe my former use;
Then I gave Verses, now I give my Muse.
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