TO HIS MISTRESS.
MIstake me not! 'Tis not your frisled Hair,
Your Azure Veyns, your Lilly hands so fair,
Your Rosie Cheeks, or Lip, your frown, or smile
That I call Mistress! Oh there's no such wile
Can take one Thought of mine; 'Tis not that Grace
That always dances in your Eye or Face
That once provokes me to a Glance. Your Limbs
Knit so surpassing Art, so firm, so trim
As if not FORM'D but CAST; These but to me
Like Statue seem, and so to them I'le be:
To these your Clothes are Wedded; as to them
Your Trunk, or Press, as to each Ear a Gem,
To that a Casket. Now d'yee think that I
With Trunks, or Coffins will a Rival dye?
Purer then fire! a Thing not to be seen
In me must raise a Throne, must be my Queen.
Her Veyl spun out with Charity to hide
Our Numberless Transgressions on each side;
[Page] Shall have my simplest and most Virgin Kiss.
Next her Minds Harmony, I'le count my Bliss.
Her smoother Thoughts, and Wishes I'le embrace
As a full Quire of Angels in one face.
Her Modest Blushes, and her Chastity
To me both Venus, and shall Dian be.
Whose fears no furies are, but Priests, whose Joy
No Rapture is, nor darling of the Boy,
But with her hopes a Constellation makes,
Mixt with those Sacred Vows she daily takes.
Now whilst such Innocence resides below
I will to her as to a Temple go.
Whilst thus I wed, whilst thus I choose my Bride
I am not to the Sex, but Vertue ty'd.
Ex Aede Christi J.L.
Good Omen to the Nuptials of my never enough Honoured Pupill Mrs. Mary Noel Widow; with my much Honoured Kinsman Sir William Farmour Baronet.
BLest Nymph! of Females the Prime star
In Beauties firmament! so far
Out-shining others, that all vex
To be stil'd Creatures of your Sex.
Since all your Lustre is divine,
The Richest Gem of Vertues shrine;
No Colours here dare strive for Place,
Where Graces only make the Face.
[Page] In you there's naught of Art or Paint,
But all we meet is Virgin, Saint.
The Ladies Veil, and bite their Lips,
Forc't to confess their own Eclipse.
Whilst she is held o'th Lovelyest hue,
Whom fame sets forth as likest you.
Whilst you move thus deliberate,
Not in a coy, but pious state.
Whilst y' in your self a SENATE keep,
Where PRUDENCE ne'r has time to sleep.
Whilst that with Tears you wash your Bed,
Before you dare resolve to Wed.
And oft implore, and pray agen,
Till Heaven vouchsafe to say Amen:
Hence be't to call the Nuptial Ty
A Sacrament, no Heresie.
Since you i'th Church do doubtful stand,
Whether you move on Sea or Land.
Since you your self devoutly shrowd,
As if you met your Lord i'th Cloud:
Cloth'd with white Robes of Innocence,
And lov'd by each Intelligence.
No Pompous dress can you adorn,
And Arts best Rags are Marks of Scorn.
Your Saphyrs, Pearls, and each rich stone
Change Colour, wishing they were none.
Those Vain delights o'th Wedding Bed
Methinks the Virgins gin to dread;
Since they do clearly now descry
Ere they well marry, they must dye.
[...]
Now may the Aspects of this morn
Out by that Instant when you'r born:
Yet for contentment may this first
If your new Life be found the worst.
So may you live that each day prove
Midwife to a Progeny of Love.
May your Blest sociat find in you,
What still invites to Court, and woe.
May your Afflictions still grow more,
Till each can write full out fourscore.
May you of Joys no Ray or Beam
Discover still, but a full stream.
Whilst Sands touch Sands, and minutes kiss,
May you be bath'd with showres of bliss.
Clouds of your Praises still contend
With Clouds of blessings that descend
On you, and yours, may such a Strife
Fill the whole Circuit of your Life.
May you still prove a sacred Charm,
To guard your Lover from all Harm.
May you of him a Champion find,
Not by the strength of Hand, but Mind;
Subduing all that dare Contest
Whether? In Nature you are Best.
Beyond Time and Expression Yours. Ex Aede Christi J.L.
Luffenham in Rutlandshire.
With Allowance.