 | Poems upon several Occasions |  |
On a Lady's Needle.
Say, well-form'd Piece of pointed Steel,
Why should Her Hands thy Malice feel;
Her Iv'ry Hands that whiter show
Than new-born Lilly's native Snow:
Her Hands proud Scepters fram'd to sway,
And teach their Monarchs to obey?
Why should Her Hands thy Malice feel;
11
Than new-born Lilly's native Snow:
Her Hands proud Scepters fram'd to sway,
And teach their Monarchs to obey?
Or tell me, Needle, why should'st thou
Her slender Fingers injure so?
Thy polish'd Point, there rashly stain,
And purchase Guilt to give her Pain?
In vain thou dost those Fingers gore,
By Suff'ring they're enrich'd the more:
The Crimson Drops, that round them stand,
In Rubies swell to grace her Hand;
The Drops thy impious Rage has shed
Are more divine than Venus bled;
The greatest Prince that fills a Throne
To save that Blood, would lose his own.
Her slender Fingers injure so?
Thy polish'd Point, there rashly stain,
And purchase Guilt to give her Pain?
In vain thou dost those Fingers gore,
By Suff'ring they're enrich'd the more:
The Crimson Drops, that round them stand,
In Rubies swell to grace her Hand;
The Drops thy impious Rage has shed
Are more divine than Venus bled;
The greatest Prince that fills a Throne
To save that Blood, would lose his own.
12
Did she not thy rude Motions guide,
Thy curious Works, embroider'd Pride,
Must all have uncommended dy'd:
In ev'ry Flow'r Her Fancies shine,
The Art all Hers, the Glory thine:
To thee since so obliging found,
How can Her Hands deserve the Wound?
Ah! then, fond little Lance, forbear
To vex those Hands, those Fingers spare:
But if thou wouldst propitious prove,
Chastise Her Heart, teach That to love;
There all thy boasted Forces try,
There thy envenom'd Sting apply;
Deep,—deeply let it be imprest,
Till thrilling Vengeance pierce Her Breast;
Her Breast that's more relentless far
Than sensless Rocks, or Marbles are.
If thou canst move Compassion there,
Or mollify the cruel Fair,
Gods!—what proud Trophies will I raise
To thee of Gratitude, and Praise.
Then may'st thou boast thou dost excel
The God of Love in aiming well,
Who never yet cou'd speed a Dart,
Or wing a Wound to reach Her Heart.
Thy curious Works, embroider'd Pride,
Must all have uncommended dy'd:
In ev'ry Flow'r Her Fancies shine,
The Art all Hers, the Glory thine:
To thee since so obliging found,
How can Her Hands deserve the Wound?
Ah! then, fond little Lance, forbear
To vex those Hands, those Fingers spare:
But if thou wouldst propitious prove,
Chastise Her Heart, teach That to love;
There all thy boasted Forces try,
There thy envenom'd Sting apply;
Deep,—deeply let it be imprest,
Till thrilling Vengeance pierce Her Breast;
Her Breast that's more relentless far
Than sensless Rocks, or Marbles are.
13
Or mollify the cruel Fair,
Gods!—what proud Trophies will I raise
To thee of Gratitude, and Praise.
Then may'st thou boast thou dost excel
The God of Love in aiming well,
Who never yet cou'd speed a Dart,
Or wing a Wound to reach Her Heart.
| Poems upon several Occasions | |