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I.
You are
deceiv'd; I sooner may, dull fair,
Seat a dark Moor
in Cassiopea's chair,
Or on the glow-worm's uselesse
light
Bestow the watching flames of night,
Or give
the rose's breath
To executed death,
Ere the
bright hiew
Of verse to you;
It is just Heaven on
beauty stamps a fame,
And we, alas! its triumphs but
proclaim.
II.
What chains but are too light
for me, should I
Say that Lucasta in strange arms
could lie?
Or that Castara were impure;
Or
Saccarisa's faith unsure?
That Chloris' love, as
hair,
Embrac'd each en'mies air;
That all their
good
Ran in their blood?
'Tis the same wrong th'
unworthy to inthrone,
As from her proper sphere t'
have vertue thrown.
III.
That strange force on
the ignoble hath renown;
As AURUM FULMINANS, it blows
vice down.
'Twere better (heavy one) to crawl
Forgot, then raised, trod on [to] fall.
All your
defections now
Are not writ on your brow;
Odes to
faults give
A shame must live.
When a fat mist we
view, we coughing run;
But, that once meteor drawn,
all cry: undone.
IV.
How bright the fair
Paulina did appear,
When hid in jewels she did seem a
star!
But who could soberly behold
A wicked owl in
cloath of gold,
Or the ridiculous Ape
In sacred
Vesta's shape?
So doth agree
Just praise with
thee:
For since thy birth gave thee no beauty, know,
No poets pencil must or can do so.
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