THE SPRING. THOUGH you be absent here, I needs must say As if they sung to pleasure you : I saw a rose-bud ope this morn-I'll swear How could it be so fair, and you away? Where'er you walk'd, trees were as reverent made, As when of old Gods dwelt in every shade. Dull creatures! 't is not without cause that she, In ancient times, sure, they much wiser were, How would those learned trees have follow'd you! You would have drawn them and their peet too. But who can blame them now? for, since you They're here the only fair, and shine alone; The thickest boughs could make no shade, 're The fairest flowers could please no more, near you, Than painted flowers, set next to them, could do. Whene'er then you come hither, that shall be The little joys which here are now, "T is you the best of seasons with you bring; 1 WRITTEN IN JUICE OF LEMON. WHILST what I write I do not see, I dare thus, ev'n to you, write poetry, How much it does thy power excel, Alas! thou think'st thyself secure, And the last fire their truth must try, 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 heretick, 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; A more gentle ordeal fire, And bid her by Love's flames read it again. Strange power of heat! thou yet dost show A sudden paint adorns the trees, 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 mysteryThou 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 confessConsume 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. INCONSTANCY. FIVE years ago (says Story) I lov'd you, Must of all things most strangely inconstant prove, If then this body love what th' other did, bear. The world's a scene of changes; and to be For 't were to break the laws herself has made : |