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Show 7o P 0 E M S. Adam from Paradife expell'd Juft fuch a wretched Being held. a. 'Tis not thy Love I fear to lofe, That will in fpight of abfence hold * But *tis the benefit and ufe Is loft, as in imprifon'd Gold: Which though the Sum be ne'er fo great, Enriches nothing but conceit. 3- What angry Star then governs me That I muft feel a double fmart, Prifoner to fate as well as thee *, Kept from thy face, link'd to thy heart \ Becaufe m y Love all love excells, Muft m y grief have no Parallels ? 4. Saplefs and dead as Winter here I now remain, and all I fee Copies of m y wild ftate appear, But I am their Epitome. Love m e no more^ for I arri grown Too dead and dull for thee to own. To Mrs. Mary Awbrey. SOul of my Soul, my Joy, my Crown, my Friend, A name which all the reft doth comprehend; H o w happy are w e now, whofe Souls are grown, By an incomparable mixture, one: Whofe * POEMS. ?l Whofe well-acquainted Minds arc now as near As Love, or Vows, or Friendfhip can endear? I have no thought but what's to thee reveal'd, Nor thou defire that is from m e conceal'd. Thy Heart locks up m y Secrets richly fet, And m y Breaft is thy private Cabinet. Thou fhed'ft no tear but what m y moifture lent, And if I figh, it is thy breath is fpent. United thus, what Horrour can appear Worthy our Sorrow, Anger, or our Fear ? Let the dull W o r l d alone to talk and fight, And with their vaft Ambitions Nature fright $ Let them defpife fo Innocent a flame, While Envy, Pride, and Faction play their game .* But w e by Love fublim'd fo high fball rife, T o pity Kings, and Conquerours defpife,' Since w e that Sacred Union have engroft, Which they and all the factious W o r l d have loft. In Memory of Mr. Cartwright. STay, Prince of Phancy, ftay, we are not fit T o welcorhe or admire thy Raptures yet: Such horrid Ignorance benights the Times, That W i t and Honour are become our Crimes. But when thofe happy Powrs which guard thy duft T o us, and to thy Mem'ry fhall be juft, And by a flame from thy bleft Genius lent, Refcue us from our dull Imprifonment, Unfequefter our Phancies, and create A Worth that may upon thy Glories wait: W e then fhall underftand thee, and defcry The Splendor of reftored Poetry. Till when let no no bold hand profane thy Shrine; 'Tis high Wit-Treafon to debafe thy Coin. Mr. |
