They taste of death that do at Heav'n arrive,
But we this paradise approach alive.
Instead of Death, the dart of Love does strike,
And renders all within these walls alike.
The high in titles, and the shepherd, here
Forgets his greatness, and forgets his fear.
All stand amazd, and gazing on the fair,
Lose thought of what themselves or others are :
Ambition lose, and have no other scope,
Save Carlisle's favour, to employ their hope.

The Thracian'could (though all those tales were true | The bold Greeks tell) no greater wonders do:

Before his feet so sheep and lions lay,
Fearless and wrathless while they heard him play.
The gay, the wise, the gallant, and the grave,
Subdued alike, all but one passion have:
No worthy mind but finds in her's there is
Something proportion'd to the rule of his :
While she with cheerful, but impartial grace,
(Born for no one, but to delight the race
Of men) like Phoebus so divides her light,
And warms us, that she stoops not from her height.


1 Orpbens.




Such was Philoclea, and such Dorus'' fame!
The matchless Sidney , that immortal frame
Of perfect beauty, on two pillars plac’d,
Not his high fancy could one pattern, grac'd
With such extremes of excellence, compose,
Wonders so distant in one face disclose !
Such cheerful modesty, such humble state,
Moves certain love, but with as doubtful fate
As when, beyond our greedy reach, we see
Inviting fruit on too sublime a tree.
All the rich flowers through his Arcadia found,
Amaz’d we see in this one garland bound.
Had but this copy (which the artist took
From the fair picture of that noble book)
Stood at Kalander's, the brave friends 3 had jarr'd,
And, rivals made, the ensuing story marr’d.
Just Nature, first instructed by his thought,
In his own house thus practis'd what he taught:
This glorious piece transcends what he could think,
So much his blood is nobler than his ink!

I Pamela.

2 Sir Philip Sidney, 9 Pyrocles and Musidores.

AT PENSHURST. Had Dorothea liv'd when mortals made Choice of their deities, this sacred shade Had held an altar to her pow'r that gave The peace and glory which these alleys have; Einbroider'd so with flowers where she stood, That it became a garden of a wood. Her presence has such more than human grace, That it can civilize the rudest place; And beauty too, and order, can impart, Where Nature ne'er intended it nor art. The plants acknowledge this, and her admire, No less than those of old did Orpheus' lyre. If she sit down, with tops all tow'rds her bow'd, They round about her into arbours crowd ; Or if she walk, in even ranks they stand, Like some well-marshall’d and obsequious band. Amphion so made stones and timber leap Into fair figures from a confus'd heap: And in the symmetry of her parts is found A pow'r like that of harmony in sound.

Ye lofty heeches ! tell this matchless dame, That if together ye fed all one fiame, It could not equalize the hundredth part Of what her eyes have kindled in my heart!Go, boy, and carve this passion on the bark Of yonder tree, which stands the sacred mark Of noble Sidney's birth ; when such benign, Such more than mortal-making stars did shine, That there they cannot but for ever prove The monument and pledge of humble love; His humble love whose hope shall ne'er rise higlier, Than for a pardon that he dares admire.




No wonder Sleep from careful lovers flies,
To bathe himself in Sacharissa's eyes.
As fair Astræa once from earth to heav'n,
By strife and loud impiety was driv'n;
So with our plaints offended, and our tears,
Wise Somnus to that paradise airs;
Waits on her will, and wretches does forsake,
To court the nymph for whom those wretches wake.
More proud than Phæbus of his throne of gold,
Is the soft god those softer limbs to hold;
Nor would exchange with Jove, to hide the skies
In dark’ning clouds, the pow'r to close her eyes;
Eyes which so far all other lights control,
They warm our mortal parts, but these our soul!

Let her free spirit, whose unconquer'd breast
Holds such deep quiet and untroubled rest,
Know that though Venus and her son should spare

rebel heart, and never teach her care, Yet Hymen may in force his vigils keep, And for another's joy suspend her sleep.


MISREPORT OF HER BEING PAINTED. As when a sort of wolves infest the night With their wild howlings at fair Cynthia's light, The noise may chase sweet slumber from our eyes, But never reach the mistress of the skies


So with the news of Sacharissa's wrongs,
Her vexed servants blame those envious tongues ;
Call Love to witness that no painted fire
Can scorch men so, or kindle such desire;
While, unconcerned, she seems mov'd no more
With this new malice than our loves before ;
But from the height of her great mind looks down
On both our passions without smile or frown.
So little care of what is done below
Hath the bright dame whom Heav'n affecteth so !
Paints her, 'tis true, with the same hand which

Like glorious colours through the flowery meads,
When lavish Nature, with her best attire,
Clothes the gay spring, the season of desire.
Paints her, 'tis true, and does her cheek adorn
With the same art wherewith she paints the morn;
With the same art wherewith she gildeth so
Those painted clouds which form Thaumantias' bow.



As in old chaos (Heav'n with earth confus’d,
And stars with rocks together crush'd and bruis'd)
The sun his light no further could extend
Than the next hill, which on bis shoulders lean'd;
So in this throng bright Sacharissa far’d,
Oppress'd by those who strove to be her guard;
As ships, though never so obsequious, fall
Foul in a tempest on their admiral.

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