IV.

But rather thus let me remain,
As man in Paradife did reign,
When perfect love did so agree
With innocence and poverty.
Adam did no jointure give,
-Himself was jointure to his Eve:
Untouch'd with av'rice yet, or pride,
The rib came freely back to' his fide.

V.

A curfe upon the man who taught
Women that love was to be bought;
Rather dote only on your gold,
And that with greedy avʼrice hold;
For if woman, too, fubmit
To that, and fell herself for it,
Fond Lover! you, a Mistress have
Of her that's but your fellow-flave.
VI.

What should those poets mean of old,
That made their god to woo in gold?
Of all men fure they had no cause
To bind Love to fuch coftly laws:
And yet I fcarcely blame them now;
For who, alas! would not allow
That women fhould fuch gifts receive,
Could they, as he, be what they give?

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VII.

If thou, my Dear! thyself shouldst prize,
Alas! what value would fuffice?
The Spaniard could not do' it, tho' he
Should to both Indies jointure thee.
Thy beauties therefore wrong will take,
If thou shouldft any bargain make;
To give all will befit thee well,
But not at underrates to fell.

VIII.

Bestow thy beauty then on me

Freely, as Nature gave it to thee;
'Tis an exploded Popish thought
To think that heav'n may be bought.

Pray'rs, hymns, and praises, are the way,
And those my thankful Mufe shall pay ;
Thy body, in my verse enfhrin'd,
Shall grow immortal as thy mind.

IX.

I'll fix thy title next in fame

To Sachariffa's well-fung name.

So faithfully will I declare

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

All women shall together rife,

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

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60

65

70

72

THE SPRING.

I.

THO' you be abfent here, I needs must fay
The trees as beauteous are, and flow'rs as gay,
As ever they were wont to be;

Nay, the birds' rural musick, too,
Is as melodious and free

As if they fung to pleasure you.

I saw a rosebud ope this morn; I'll fwear
The blufhing Morning open'd not more fair.

II.

How could it be fo fair and you away?

How could the trees be beauteous, flow'rs fogay? 10

Could they remember but last year

How you did them, they you, delight,

The sprouting leaves which faw you here,

And call'd their fellows to the fight,

Would, looking round for the fame fight in vain, 15

Creep back into their filent barks again.

III.

Where'er you walk'd, trees were ás rev'rend made, As when of old gods dwelt in ev'ry fhade.

Is 't poffible they should not know

What lofs of honour they fuftain,

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That thus they fmile and flourish now,

And still their former pride retain?

Dull Creatures! 'tis not without cause that she
Who fled the God of Wit was made a tree.

IV.

In ancient times, fure, they much wifer were,
When they rejoic'd the Thracian verse to hear;
In vain did Nature bid them ftay,

When Orpheus had his fong begun,

They call'd their wond'ring roots away,

And bad them filent to him run.

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How would those learned trees have follow'd you? You would have drawn them and their poet too.

V.

But who can blame them now? for, fince you're gone,
They 're here the only fair, and fhine alone.
You did their nat`ral rights invade;

Wherever you did walk or fit

The thickest boughs could make no fhade,
Altho' the fun had granted it:

The fairest flow'rs could please no more, near you,
Than painted flow'rs fet next to them could do.

VI.

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 fight they let us know

How we depriv'd of greater arc.

'Tis you the best of seasons with you bring;

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This is for beafts, and that for men, the Spring. 48

Volume 11,

B

WRITTEN IN JUICE OF LEMON.

I.

WHILST what I write I do not fee,

I dare thus, even to you, write poetry.
Ah' foolish Mufe! which doft fo high aspire,
And know't her judgment well,

How much it does thy pow'r excel,

Yet dar'st be read by thy just doom, the fire.
II.

Alas! thou think'st thyself secure,

Because thy form is innocent and pure;

Like hypocrites, which seem unspotted here,
But when they fadly come to die,

And the laft fire their truth must try,

Scrawl'd o'er like thee, and blotted, they appear.

III.

Go then, but reverently go,

And, fince thou needs must fin, confefs it too;

ΤΟ

Confefs 't, and with humility clothe thy fhame; 15 For thou, who elfe must burned be

An Heretick, if the pardon thee,

May'st, like a martyr, then enjoy the flame.

IV.

But if her wisdom grow fevere,

And suffer not her goodness to be there;

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