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I.
Twas
not for some calm blessing to deceive,
Thou didst thy
polish'd hands in shagg'd furs weave;
It were no
blessing thus obtain'd;
Thou rather would'st a curse
have gain'd,
Then let thy warm driven snow be ever
stain'd.
II.
Not that you feared the
discolo'ring cold
Might alchymize their silver into
gold;
Nor could your ten white nuns so sin,
That
you should thus pennance them in,
Each in her coarse
hair smock of discipline.
III.
Nor, Hero-like
who, on their crest still wore
A lyon, panther,
leopard, or a bore,
To looke their enemies in their
herse,
Thou would'st thy hand should deeper pierce,
And, in its softness rough, appear more fierce.
IV.
No, no, LUCASTA, destiny decreed,
That beasts
to thee a sacrifice should bleed,
And strip
themselves to make you gay:
For ne'r yet herald did
display
A coat, where SABLES upon ERMIN lay.
V.
This for lay-lovers, that must stand at dore,
Salute the threshold, and admire no more;
But I, in
my invention tough,
Rate not this outward bliss
enough,
But still contemplate must the hidden muffe.
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