AN EPIGRAM TO THE SMALL-POX.
NVIOUS and foul Disease, could there not
One beauty in an age, and free from thee?
What did she worth thy spite? were there
Of those that set by their false faces more
Than this did by her true? she never sought
Quarrel with nature, or in balance brought
Art her false servant; nor, for sir Hugh Plat,3
Was drawn to practise other hue, than that
Her own blood gave her: she ne'er had, nor hath
Any belief in madam Bawdbee's bath,
Or Turner's oil of talc: nor ever got
Spanish receipt to make her teeth to rot.
What was the cause then? thought'st thou, in dis
Of beauty, so to nullify a face,
That heaven should make no more; or should amiss Make all hereafter, hadst thou ruin'd this?
Ay, that thy aim was; but her fate prevail'd:
And, scorn'd, thou'st shown thy malice, but hast fail'd!
3 Sir Hugh Plat.] He was a compiler of recipes for making cosmetics, oils, ointments, &c. &c.; one of his books is entitled, "Delights for ladies to adorne their persons, &c. 1628."
HAT beauty would have lovely styled,
What manners pretty, nature mild,
What wonder perfect, all were filed
Upon record, in this blest child.
And till the coming of the soul
To fetch the flesh, we keep the roll.
COME, let us here enjoy the shade,
For love in shadow best is made.
Though Envy oft his shadow be,
None brooks the sun-light worse than he.
MISTRESS.
Where love doth shine, there needs no sun,
All lights into his one do run;
Without which all the world were dark;
Yet he himself is but a spark.
A spark to set whole world a-fire,
Who, more they burn, they more desire,
And have their being, their waste to see;
And waste still, that they still might be.
Such are his powers, whom time hath styled,
Now swift, now slow, now tame, now wild;
Now hot, now cold, now fierce, now mild;
The eldest god, yet still a child.
IR, I am thankful, first to heaven for you;
Next to yourself, for making your love true:
Then to your love and gift. And all's but
due.
You have unto my store added a book,
On which with profit I shall never look,
But must confess from whom that gift I took.
Not like your country neighbours that commit
Their vice of loving for a Christmas-fit ;
Which is indeed but friendship of the spit:
But, as a friend, which name yourself receive, And which you (being the worthier) gave me leave In letters, that mix spirits, thus to weave.
Which, how most sacred I will ever keep, So may the fruitful vine my temples steep, And fame wake for me when I yield to sleep!
Though you sometimes proclaim me too severe, Rigid, and harsh, which is a drug austere In friendship, I confess : but, dear friend, hear.
Little know they, that profess amity,
And seek to scant her comely liberty,
How much they lame her in her property.
And less they know, who being free to use
That friendship which no chance but love did choose,
Will unto license that fair leave abuse.
It is an act of tyranny, not love,
In practis'd friendship wholly to reprove,
As flattery, with friends' humours still to move.
From each of which I labour to be free,
Yet if with either's vice I tainted be,
Forgive it, as my frailty, and not me.
For no man lives so out of passion's sway,
But shall sometimes be tempted to obey
Her fury, yet no friendship to betray.
IS true, I'm broke ! vows, oaths, and all I had1
Of credit lost. And I am now run mad;
Or do upon myself some desperate ill :
This sadness makes no approaches, but to kill.
It is a darkness hath block'd up my sense,
And drives it in to eat on my offence,
Or there to starve it. Help, O you that may
Alone lend succours, and this fury stay.
Offended mistress, you are yet so fair,
As light breaks from you that affrights despair,
And fills my powers with persuading joy,
That you should be too noble to destroy.
There may some face or menace of a storm
Look forth, but cannot last in such a form.
If there be nothing worthy you can see
Of graces, or your mercy here in me,
Spare your own goodness yet; and be not great
In will and power, only to defeat.
God and the good know to forgive and save;
The ignorant and fools no pity have.
4 'Tis true, I'm broke, &c.] This, and the next three Elegies, are all addressed to the same person. The lady, whoever she was, appears to have had a love affair with the poet, who, in a moment of intoxication, had betrayed her confidence, and disclosed the secret of their connection.
I will not stand to justify my fault,
Or lay th' excuse upon the vintner's vault;
Or in confessing of the crime be nice,
Or go about to countenance the vice,
By naming in what company 'twas in,
As I would urge authority for sin;
No, I will stand arraign'd and cast, to be
The subject of your grace in pardoning me,
And (styled your mercy's creature) will live more,
Your honour now, than your disgrace before.
Think it was frailty, mistress, think me man,
Think that yourself, like heaven, forgive me can :
Where weakness doth offend, and virtue grieve,
There greatness takes a glory to relieve.
Think that I once was yours, or may be now;
Nothing is vile, that is a part of you.
Error and folly in me may have crost
Your just commands; yet those, not I, be lost.
I am regenerate now, become the child
Of your compassion; parents should be mild :
There is no father that for one demerit,
Or two, or three, a son will disinherit;
That is the last of punishments is meant ;
No man inflicts that pain, till hope be spent :
An ill-affected limb, whate'er it ail,
We cut not off, till all cures else do fail;
And then with pause; for sever'd once, that's gone,
Would live his glóry, that could keep it on.
Do not despair my mending; to distrust
Before you prove a medicine, is unjust:
You may so place me, and in such an air,
As not alone the cure, but scar be fair.
That is, if still your favours you apply,
And not the bounties you have done, deny.
Could you demand the gifts you gave, again!
Why was't? did e'er the clouds ask back their
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