12

WRITTEN IN JUICE OF LEMON.

Whene'er then you come hither, that shall be
The time, which this to others is, to me.
The little joys which here are now,
The name of punishments do bear;
When by their sight they let us know
How we depriv'd of greater are:

"Tis you the best of seasons with you bring; This is for beasts, and that for men, the Spring.

WRITTEN IN JUICE OF LEMON.

WHILST what I write I do not see,

I dare thus, even to you, write poetry.
Ah, foolish Muse! which dost so high aspire,
And know'st her judgment well,

How much it does thy power excel,
Yet darest be read by, thy just doom, the fire.
Alas! thou think'st thyself secure,
Because thy form is innocent and pure :
Like hypocrites, which seem unspotted here;
But, when they sadly come to die,

And the last fire their truth must try,
Scrawl'd o'er like thee, and blotted, they appear.

Go then, but reverently go,

And, since thou needs must sin, confess it too: Confess 't, and with humility clothe thy shame; For thou, who else must burned be

An heretic, if she pardon thee,
Mayst like a martyr then enjoy the flame.

But, if her wisdom grow severe,

And suffer not her goodness to be there;

WRITTEN IN JUICE OF LEMON.

If her large mercies cruelly' it restrain ;
Be not discouraged, but require

A more gentle ordeal fire,

And bid her by Love's flames read it again.

13

Strange power of heat! thou yet dost show
Like winter-earth, naked or cloth'd with snow:
But as, the quickening sun approaching near,
The plants arise up by degrees;

A sudden paint adorns the trees,
And all kind Nature's characters appear.

So, nothing yet in thee is seen;

But, when a genial heat warms thee within, A new-born wood of various lines there grows; Here buds an A, and there a B, Here sprouts a V, and there a T,

And all the flourishing letters stand in rows.

Still, silly paper! thou wilt think

That all this might as well be writ with ink : Oh, no; there's sense in this, and mystery— Thou now mayst change thy author's name, And to her hand lay noble claim;

For, as she reads, she makes, the words in thee.

Yet-if thine own unworthiness

Will still that thou art mine, not hers confess— Consume thyself with fire before her eyes, And so her grace or pity move:

The Gods, though beasts they do not love, Yet like them when they're burnt in sacrifice.

PINDARIC ODES, WRITTEN IN IMITATION OF THE STYLE AND MANNER OF THE ODES OF PINDAR.

I'AVE often wish'd to love; what
Me still the cruel boy does spar
And I a double task must bear
First to woo him, and then a mes
Come at last and strike, for UGL
If thou art any thing besides a .
I'll think thee else no God to a
But poets rather Gods, who fire. L.

I ask not one in whom all be.
Let me but love, whate'er
She cannot seem deform
And I would have her seem

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Desire takes wings and stag
It stays not dully to inquire the
That happy thing, a lover
I shall not see with others

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Thy beauties therefore wrong
will take,
If thou shouldst any bargain make ;
To give all, will befit thee well;
But not at under-rates to sell.

Bestow thy beauty then on me,
Freely, as nature gave't to thee;
'Tis an exploded popish thought
To think that heaven may be bought.
Prayers, hymns, and praises, are the way,
And those my thankful Muse shall
Thy body, in my verse enshrin'd,
Shall grow immortal as thy mind.

I'll fix thy title next in fame
To Sacharissa's well-sung name.
So faithfully will I declare

pay:

What all thy wondrous beauties are,
That when, at the last great assize,

All women shall together rise,

Men straight shall cast their eyes on thee,
And know at first that thou art she.

THE SPRING.

THOUGH you be absent here, I needs must say
The trees as beauteous are, and flowers as gay,
As ever they were wont to be;
Nay, the birds' rural music too
Is as melodious and free,

As if they sung to pleasure you:

I saw a rose-bud ope this morn-I'll swear
The blushing morning open'd not more fair.