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From a brave height my star shall shine
T'illuminate the desert clime.

Thy Summer's bower shall overlook,
The subtle windings of the brook,
For thy delight which only springs,
And cuts her way with turtle's wings.
The pavement of thy rooms shall shine,
With the bruis'd treasures of the mine,
And not a tale of love but shall
In miniature adorn thy wall.
Thy closet shall Queens' caskets mock
With rustic jewels of the rock,
And thine own light shall make a gem,
As bright of these, as Queens of them.
From this thy sphere thou shalt behold
Thy snowy ewes troop o'er the mold,
Who yearly pay my love a-piece
A tender lamb, and silver fleece.
And when Sol's rays shall all combine
Thine to out-burn, though not outshine,
Then, at the foot of some green hill,
Where crystal Dove runs murm'ring still,
We'll angle for the bright-ey'd fish,
To make my love a dainty dish;
Or, in a cave, by nature made,

Fly to the covert of the shade,

Where all the pleasures we will prove,·
Taught by the little God of love.

And when bright Phoebus' scorching beams,

Shall cease to gild the silver streams,

Then in the cold arms of the flood

We'll bathing cool the factious blood,

Thy beauteous limbs the brook shall grace,
Like the reflex of Cynthia's face,

29 Poot

Whilst all the wond'ring fry do greet
The welcome light, adore thy feet,
Supposing Venus to be come

To send a kiss to Thetis' home.
And following night shall trifled be
Sweet; as thou know'st I promised thee;
Thus shall the Summer's days, and nights,
Be dedicate to thy delights.

Then live with me, and be my love,
And all these pleasures shalt thou prove.

But when the sapless season brings
Cold Winter, on her shivering wings,
Freezing the river's liquid face,
Into a crystal looking glass,

And that the trees their naked bones
Together knock, like skeletons,

Then, with the softest, whitest locks,
Spun with the tribute of thy flocks,
We will o'ercast thy whiter skin,
Winter without, a Spring within.
At the first peep of day I'll rise,
To make the sullen hare thy prize,
And thou with open arms shalt come
To bid thy hunter welcome home.
The partridge, plover, and the poot 29
I'll with the subtle mallard shoot;


The fell-fare, and the greedy thrush
Shall drop from ev'ry hawthorn bush,
And the slow heron down shall fall,
To feed my Fairest Fair withal,
The feather'd people of the air,

Shall fall to be my Phyllis' fare,

= a grouse or moor fowl.

30 Fell-fare: = field-fare.

No storm shall touch thee, tempest move;
Then live with me, and be my love.

But from her cloister when I bring,
My Phyllis to restore the Spring,
The rustling Boreas shall withdraw,
The snow shall melt, the ice shall thaw;
The aguish plants fresh leaves shall show,
The earth put on her verdant hue,
And thou (fair Phyllis) shalt be seen
Mine, and the Summer's beauteous Queen.
These; and more pleasures shalt thou prove;
Then live with me, and be my love.

The Entertainment to Phyllis

Now Phoebus is gone down to sleep
In cold embraces of the deep,
And Night's pavilion in the sky,
(Crown'd with a starry canopy)
Erected stands, whence the pale Moon
Steals out to her Endymion;

Over the meads, and o'er the floods,
Thorough the ridings of the woods,
Th' enamour'd Huntress scours her ways,

And through Night's veil her horns displays.
I have a bower for my Love,

Hid in the centre of a grove
Of aged oaks, close from the sight
Of all the prying eyes of Night.

The polish'd walls of marble be
Pillaster'd round with porphyry,
Casements of crystal to transmit
Night's sweets to thee, and thine to it,


Fine silver locks to ebon doors,
Rich gilded roofs, and cedar floors,
With all the objects may express
A pleasing solitariness.

Within my Love shall find each room, New furnished from the silk-worms' loom, Vessels of the true antique mould,

Cups cut in amber, myrrh and gold;
Quilts blown with roses, beds with down,
More white than Atlas' aged crown,
Carpets where flowers woven grow,
Only thy sweeter steps to strew,
Such as may emulation bring,

To the wrought mantle of the Spring.
There silver lamps shall silent shine,
Supplied by oils of jessamine,
And mists of odours shall arise

To air thy little Paradise.

I have such fruits too, for thy taste,
As teeming Autumn never grac't,
Apples, as round, as thine own eyes;
Or, as thy sister beauties' prize,
Smooth, as thy snowy skin, and sleek
And ruddy as the morning's cheek,
Grapes, that the Tyrian purple wear,
The spritely matrons of the year,
Such, as Lyæus never bare,
About his drowsy brows, so fair,
So plump, so large, so ripe, so good,
So full of flavour, and of blood.

There's water in a grot hard by,

To quench thee, when with dalliance dry,
Sweet, as the milk of sand-red cow,
Brighter than Cynthia's silver bow,
Cold, as the goddess' self e'er was,

And clearer than thy looking glass.
But oh! the sum of all delight
For which the day submits to night,
Is that my Phyllis thou wilt find,
When we are in embraces twin'd.
Pleasures that so have tempted Jove;
To all his masquerades of love;
For them the Prince his purple waives,
And strips him naked as his slaves.
'Tis they that teach humanity

The thing we love, the reason why:
Before we live; but ne'er till then,
Are females women; or males men:
This is the way, and this the trade,
That does perfect what nature made,
Then go; but first thy beauties screen,
Lest they that revel on the lawns,

The Nymphs, the Satyrs, and the Fawns, Adore thee for Night's hornêd Queen.

On Christmas-Day



RISE, happy mortals, from your sleep,
Bright Phosphor now begins to peep,
In such apparel as ne'er dress'd
The proudest day-break of the East:
Death's sable curtain 'gins disperse,
And now the blessed morn appears,
Which has long'd and pray'd for Him

So many centuries of years,

To defray th' arrears of sin.

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