RARE Artifan! whofe Pencil moves
Not our Delights alone, but Loves:
From thy Shop of Beauty we
Slaves return, that enter'd Free.
The heedlefs Lover does not know
Whofe Eyes they are that wound him fo:
But confounded with thy Art,
Inquires her Name that has his Heart.
Another, who did long refrain,
Feels his old Wound bleed fresh again,
With dear Remembrance of that Face,
Where now he reads new Hope of Grace:
Nor Scorn, nor Cruelty does find:
But gladly fuffers a falfe Wind
To blow the Ashes of Despair
From the reviving Brand of Care:
Fool that forgets her ftubborn Look
This Softness from thy Finger took.
Strange, that thy Hand should not inspire
The Beauty only, but the Fire:
Not the Form alone, and Grace,
But A&t and Power of a Face.
May'ft thou yet thy felf as well,
As all the World befides excel;
So you th' unfeigned Truth rehearse,
(That I may make it live in Verfe)
Why thou could'st not at one Effay,
That Face to after-times convey,
Which this admires; was it thy Wit
To make her oft before thee fit?
Confefs, and we'll forgive thee this:
For who would not repeat that Bliss,
And frequent Sight of fuch a Dame,
Buy with the Hazard of his Fame?
Yet who can tax thy blameless Skill,
Though thy good Hand had failed still?
When Nature's felf fo often errs,
She for this many thousand Years
Seems to have practis'd with much Care,
To frame the Race of Woman Fair;
Yet never could a perfect Birth
Produce before to grace the Earth,
Which waxed old, e'er it could fee
Her that amaz'd thy Art and Thee.
But now 'tis done, O let me know
Where those immortal Colours grow,
That could this deathless Piece compofe,
In Lilies, or the fading Rofe?
No, for this Theft thou haft climb'd higher
Than did Prometheus for his Fire,
Of the Lady who can Sleep when
The pleafes.
O wonder Sleep from careful Lovers flies,
To bathe himself in Sachariffa's Eyes;
As fair Aftrea once from Earth to Heav'n
By Strife and loud Impiety was driv❜n:
So with our Plaints offended and our Tears,
Wife Somnus to that Paradise repairs,
Waits on her Will, and Wretches does forfake
To court the Nymph, for whom thofe Wretches wake.
More proud than Phoebus of his Throne of Gold
Is the foft God, thofe fofter Limbs to hold;
Nor wou'd exchange with Jove, to hide the Skies
In darkning Clouds, the Pow'r to close her Eyes:
Eyes which fo far all other Lights controul,
They warm our mortal Parts, but these our Soul.
Let her free Spirit, whofe unconquer'd Breast,
Holds fuch deep Quiet, and untroubled Reft,
Know, that tho' Venus and her Son shou'd spare
Her Rebel Heart, and never teach her Care,
Yet Hymen may per-force her Vigils keep,
And, for another's Joy, fufpend her Sleep.
Of the Mif-report of her being Painted.
S when a fort of Wolves infest the Night
With their wild howlings at fair Cynthia's Light,
The Noife may chafe sweet Slumber from our Eyes,
But never reach the Miftrefs of the Skies:
So with the News of Sachariffa's Wrongs,
Her vexed Servants blame those envious Tongues;
Call Love to witness that no painted Fire
Can fcorch Men fo, or kindle fuch Defire;
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 Paffions, without Smile or Frown:
So little Care of what is done below
Hath the bright Dame whom Heav'n affecteth fo,
Paints her, 'tis true, with the fame Hand which spreads
Like glorious Colours thro' the flow'ry Meads
When lavish Nature with her best Attire
Cloaths the gay Spring, the Seafon of Defire;
Paints her, 'tis true, and does her Cheek adorn
With the fame Art wherewith fhe Paints the Morn.
With the fame Art, wherewith she gildeth fo
Those painted Clouds which form Thaumantia's Bow.
Of her passing through a Crowd of People.
S in old Chaos Heav'n with Earth confus'd,
And Stars with Rocks together crufh'd and bruis'd: The Sun his Light no further cou'd extend
Than the next Hill, which on his Shoulders lean'd:
So in this Throng bright Sacharissa far'd,
Opprefs'd by those who ftrove to be her Guard:
As Ships tho' never fo obfequious, fall
Foul in a Tempeft on their Admiral.
A greater Favour this Disorder brought
Unto her Servants, than their awful Thought
Durft entertain, when thus compell'd they preft
The yielding Marble of her fnowy Breast.
`While Love infults, disguised in the Cloud,
And welcome force of that unruly Crowd.
So th'am'rous Tree, while yet the Air is calm,
Just Distance keeps from his defired Palm:
But when the Wind her ravish'd Branches throws
Into his Arms, and mingles all their Boughs;
Tho' loath he seems her tender Leaves to press,
More loath he is that friendly Storm should cease,
From whofe rude Bounty, he the double Use
At once receives, of Pleasure and Excufe,
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