Had your prosperity always clearly gone, That would be more oppress'd than help'd by day. TO A LADY WHO MADE POSIES FOR RINGS. I LITTLE thought the time would ever be, Thou to few words all sense dost give. 'T was Nature taught you this rare art, Who, all the good she did impart If, as the ancients did not doubt to sing, This difference only will remain- But your unweary'd wit is always new. 'Tis said that conjurers have an art found out To carry spirits confin'd in rings about: The wonder now will less appear, When we behold your magic here. And, the strong witchcraft full to make, Love, the great devil, charm'd to those circles, dwells. They who above do various circles find, Say, like a ring th' Equator heaven does bind. When heaven shall be adorn'd by thee (Which then more Heaven than 't is will be), 'Tis thou must write the posy there; For it wanteth one as yet, Though the sun pass through 't twice a year; The sun, who is esteem'd the god of wit. Happy the hands which wear thy sacred rings, They'll teach those hands to write mysterious things. Yet shall thy rings give place to none, PROLOGUE TO THE GUARDIAN: BEFORE THE PRINCE. WHO says the times do learning disallow ? 'Tis false; 't was never honour'd so as now. And scorn no less their censure than their praise: Our Muse, blest Prince! does only' on you rely; It THE EPILOGUE. THE play, great Sir! is done; yet needs must fear, Though you brought all your father's mercies here, may offend your Highness; and we 'ave now Three hours done treason here, for aught we know. But power your grace can above Nature give, It can give power to make abortives live; In which, if our bold wishes should be crost, "T is but the life of one poor week't has lost: Though it should fall beneath your mortal scorn, Scarce could it die more quickly than 't was born. ON THE DEATH OF MR. WILLIAM HERVEY. "Immodicis brevis est ætas, & rara senectus." MARt. IT was a dismal and a fearful night, [light, Scarce could the morn drive on th' unwilling When sleep, death's image, left my troubled breast, By something liker death possest. My eyes with tears did uncommanded flow, Of some intolerable fate. What bell was that? ah me! too much I know. My sweet companion, and my gentle peer, Did not with more reluctance part, Than I, my dearest friend! do part from thee. My dearest friend, would I had dy'd for thee! If once my griefs prove tedious too. |