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The SHRYNE.
Upon seeing her in a Scarlet-Velvet-Mantle.
1665.
Aurora
thus begins to rise,
When she with Crimson trims the Skies;
But her weak beams are conquer'd soon;
Yours, Madam, triumph o're the Sun.
Too fiercely they our Eyes assail'd,
If Moses-like you were not veild.
Infolded there, your sweets make good,
You are a Damask-Rose i'th' bud.
Roses, when they lay by their leaves,
(Those Velvet-Mantles Nature gives)
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You are most sweet without your Dress.
Yet since we use with reverence,
A Carkass, when the Soul's flown thence;
And when obedience here was shown,
They honour'd Courts, though Kings were gone;
Let us, when we her presence want,
Adore the Shrine that held the Saint.
Divines affirm our Churches are
Sacred for th' Service offer'd there.
Rich Mantle! when thou her dost fold,
Thou art the Mine, and she the Gold.
Nature's Exchequer, where does lye
The total of her Treasury.
The Zodiac never did intwine
More Beauties, than are clos'd in thine,
From her it takes the dazling Grace:
The Sun-beams shine so through a Glass.
Thus the expanded Chrystal Skies,
That both inlight, and bless our Eyes;
Yet serve but as a glorious Skreen,
For greater beauties are within.
Nor is it vain to praise the Shell,
And not the Pearl that there does dwell;
It is enough, if here my Muse
Can do, but as our Ladies use,
When they on Limons set their minds,
And only Candy o're the Rinds.
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