Smiles, that can warm The blood; yet teach a charm, Blushes, that bin The burnish of no sin; Nor flames of aught too hot within! Joys, that confess Virtue their mistress; And have no other head to dress! . Days, that need borrow No part of their 'Good morrow!' Life, that dares send A challenge to his end; And, when it comes, say, 'Welcome, friend!' SIDNEAN showers Of sweet Discourse; whose powers Can crown old Winter's head with flowers! Soft, silken hours! Open suns! shady bowers! 'Bove all, nothing within that lowers! Whate'er delight Can make Day's forehead bright; In her whole frame, Have Nature all the name; Art and Ornament, the shame! Her flattery, Picture and Poesy! Her counsel, her own virtue be! I wish her store Of worth may leave her poor Of Wishes! And I wish Now, if Time knows -No more! That Her, whose radiant brows Her, whose just bays My future hopes can raise A trophy to her present praise; Her, that dares be What these Lines wish to see: I seek no further! It is She! 'Tis She! and here, Lo, I unclothe, and clear, May she enjoy it, Whose merit dares apply it; But modesty dares still deny it! Such worth as this is Shall fix my flying Wishes; And determine them to kisses! Let her full glory, My Fancies, fly before ye! Be ye my fictions; but her story! OUT OF THE ITALIAN. To thy Lover, Dear! discover That sweet Blush of thine! that shameth (When those roses O, deliver Love his quiver! From thy Eyes, he shoots his arrows, Where APOLLO Cannot follow, Feathered with his mother's sparrows. O, envy not (That we die not!) Those dear Lips! whose door encloses All the Graces In their places! Brother pearls; and sister roses! . From these treasures Of ripe pleasures; One bright smile, to clear the weather! Earth and Heaven, Thus made even, Both will be good friends together. The air does woo thee! Winds cling to thee! Might a word once fly from out thee, Storm and thunder Would sit under; And keep silence round about thee! But if Nature's Common creatures, So dear glories dare not borrow; Owes a duty To my loving, ling'ring sorrow! When, to end me, Death shall send me All his terrors, to affright me: Gild their faces; And those terrors shall delight me! When my dying Life is flying, Those sweet Airs, that often slew me, Shall revive me; Or reprive me, And to many deaths renew me! |