Who with the royal mix'd her noble blood,
And in high grace with Gloriana stood;
Her bounty, sweetness, beauty, goodness, fuch,
That none e'er thought her happiness too much;
So well inclin'd her favours to confer,
And kind to all, as Heav'n had been to her!
The virgin's part, the mother, and the wife,
So well fhe acted in this fpan of life,
That tho' few years (too few, alas!) fhe told,
She feem'd in all things but in beauty old.
As unripe fruit, whofe verdant stalks do cleave
Clofe to the tree, which grieves no lefs to leave 30
The fmiling pendent which adorns her fo,
And until autumn on the bough should grow;
So feem'd her youthful foul not eas'ly forc'd,
Or from fo fair, fo fweet, a feat divorc'd:
Her fate at once did hafly feem and flow;
At once too cruel, and unwilling too.
THYR. Under how hard a law are mortals born!
Whom now we envy, we anon must mourn:
What Heav'n fets highest, and seems most to prize, Is foon removed from our wond'ring eyes!
But fince the Sifters* did fo foon untwine
So fair a thread, I'll strive to piece the line.
Vouchfafe, fad Nymph! to let me know the dame,
And to the Mufes I'll commend her name:
Make the wide country echo to your moan,
The lift'ning trees and favage mountains groan.
What rock's not moved, when the death is fung
Of one fo good, fo lovely, and so young?
GAL.Twas Hamilton!—whom I had nam'd before, But naming her, grief lets me fay no more.
ON THE HEAD OF A STAG.
So we fome antique hero's ftrength
Learn by his lance's weight and length;
As thefe vaft beams exprefs the beast,
Whose shady brows alive they drest.
Such game, while yet the world was new,
The mighty Nimrod did pursue.
What huntfman of our feeble race,
Or dogs, dare fuch a monfter chase?
Refembling, with each blow he strikes,
The charge of a whole troop of pikes.
O fertile Head! which ev'ry year
Could fuch a crop of wonder bear!
The teeming earth did never bring,
So foon, so hard, so huge a thing;
Which might it never have been caft,
(Each year's growth added to the last)
Thefe lofty branches had supply'd
The earth's bold fons' prodigious pride :
Volume I.
Heav'n with these engines had been feal'd,
When mountains heap'd on mountains fail'd.
And on the am'rous youth bestow'd the race:
Venus, (the nymph's mind measuring by her own)
Whom the rich spoils of cities overthrown
Had proftrated to Mars, could well advise
Th' advent'rous lover how to gain the prize.
Nor lefs may Jupiter to gold afcribe,
For when he turn'd himself into a bribe,
Who can blame Danae, or the brazen tow'r,
That they withstood not that almighty show'r? 10
Never till then did love make Jove put on
A form more bright and nobler than his own;
Nor were it juft, would he refume that shape,
That flack devotion should his thunder 'fcape.
'Twas not revenge for griev'd Apollo's wrong, 15
Thofe afs's ears on Midas' temples hung,
But fond repentance of his happy wish,
Because his meat grew metal like his dish.
Would Bacchus blefs me fo, I'd conftant hold
Unto my wifh, and die creating gold.
UPON BEN. JOHNSON.
MIRROR of Poets! mirror of our age!
Which her whole face beholding on thy stage,
Pleas'd and difpleas'd with her own faults, endures
A remedy like those whom mufick cures.
Thou haft alone thofe various inclinations
Which Nature gives to ages, fexes, nations:
So traced with thy all-refembling pen,
That whate'er cuftom has impos'd on men,
Or ill-got habit, (which deforms them fo,
That scarce a brother can his brother know)
Is represented to the wond'ring eyes
Of all that fee or read thy Comedies.
Whoever in thofe glaffes looks, may find
The spots return'd, or graces, of his mind;
And by the help of fo divine an art,
At leifure view and dress his nobler part.
Narciffus, cozen'd by that flatt'ring well,
Which nothing could but of his beauty tell,
Had here, difcov'ring the deform'd estate
Of his fond mind, preferv'd himfelf with hate.
But virtue top, as well as vice, is clad
In flesh and blood fo well, that Plato had
Beheld, what his high fancy once embrac❜d,
Virtue with colours, speech, and motion grac'd.
The fundry postures of thy copious Muse
Who would exprefs, a thousand tongues must use,
Whofe fate's no lefs peculiar than thy art;
For as thou couldst all characters impart,
So none could render thine, which still escapes,
Like Protetis, in variety of shapes;
Who was nor this, nor that; but all we find,
And all we can imagine, in mankind.
ON MR. JOHN FLETCHER'S PLAYS.
FLETCHER! to thee we do not only owe
All these good plays, but thofe of others too :
'Thy wit repeated does support the stage,
Credits the laft, and entertains this age.
No worthies, form'd by any Muse, but thine,
Could purchase robes to make themselves fo fine.
What brave commander is not proud to fee
Thy brave Melantius in his gallantry?
Our greatest ladies love to fee their scorn
Outdone by thine in what themfelves have worn: 10
Th'impatient widow, ere the year be done,
Sees thy Afpafia weeping in her gown.
I never yet the tragick strain assay'd,
Deterr'd by that inimitable maid *;
*The Maid's Tragedy.
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