Grates;

When I lie tangled in her hair,

And fettered to her eye,

The Gods that wanton in the Air,

Know no such Liberty.

When flowing Cups run swiftly round

With no allaying Thames,

Our careless heads with Roses bound,

Our hearts with Loyal Flames;

When thirsty grief in Wine we steep,

When Healths and draughts go free,

Fishes that tipple in the Deep

Know no such Liberty.

When (like committed linnets) I

With shriller throat shall sing

The sweetness, Mercy, Majesty,

And glories of my King;

When I shall voice aloud how good

He is, how Great should be,

Enlargèd Winds, that curl the Flood,

Know no such Liberty.

Stone Walls do not a Prison make,

Nor Iron bars a Cage;

Minds innocent and quiet take

That for an Hermitage.

If I have freedom in my Love,

And in my soul am free,

Angels alone that soar above,

Enjoy such Liberty.

Lucasta’s Fan, with a Looking-Glass in It

Eastrich! Thou featherd Foole, and easie prey,

 That larger sailes to thy broad Vessell needst;

Snakes through thy guttur-neck hisse all the day,

 Then on thy I’ron Messe at supper feedst.

Oh what a glorious transmigration

 From this, to so divine an edifice

Hast thou straight made! neere from a winged stone

 Transform’d into a Bird of Paradice!

Now doe thy Plumes for hiew and Luster vie

 With th’ Arch of heav’n that triumphs o’re past wet,

And in a rich enamel’d pinion lye

 With Saphyres, Amethists, and Opalls set.

Sometime they wing her side, thẽ strive to drown

 The Day’s eyespiercing beames, whose am’rousheat

Sollicites still, ’till with this shield of down

 From her brave face, his glowing fires are beat.

But whilst a plumy curtaine she doth draw,

 A Chrystall Mirror sparkles in thy breast,

In which her fresh aspect when as she saw,

 And then her Foe retired to the West,

Deare Engine that oth’ Sun got’st me the day,

 ’Spite of his hot assaults mad’st him retreat!

No wind (said she) dare with thee henceforth play

 But mine own breath to coole the Tyrants heat.

My lively shade thou ever shalt retaine

 In thy inclosed feather-framed glasse,

And but unto our selves to all remaine

 Invisible, thou feature of this face!

So said, her sad Swaine over-heard, and cried

 Yee Gods! for faith unstaind this a reward!

Feathers and glasse t’outweigh my vertue tryed?

 Ah show their empty strength! the Gods accord.

Now fall’n the brittle Favourite lyes, and burst!

 Amas’d Lucasta weepes, repents, and flies

To her Alexis, vowes her self acurst

 If hence she dresse her selfe, but in his eyes.

Lucasta, Taking the Waters at Tunbridge

Ode

YEE happy floods! that now must passe

The sacred conduicts of her Wombe,

Smooth, and transparent as your face,

When you are deafe, and windes are dumbe.

Be proud! and if your Waters be

Foul’d with a counterfeyted teare,

Or some false sigh hath stained yee,

Haste, and be purified there.

And when her Rosie gates y’have trac’d,

Continue yet some Orient wet,

’Till turn’d into a Gemme, y’are plac’d

Like Diamonds with Rubies set.

Yee drops that dew th’ Arabian bowers

Tell me did you e’re smell or view

On any leafe of all your flowers

Soe sweet a sent, so rich a hiew?

But as through th’ Organs of her breath,

You trickle wantonly, beware;

Ambitious Seas in their just death

As well as Lovers must have share.

And see! you boyle as well as I,

You that to coole her did aspire,

Now troubled, and neglected lye,

Nor can your selves quench your owne fire.

Yet still be happy in the thought,

That in so small a time as this;

Through all the Heavens you were brought

Of Vertue, Honour, Love and Blisse.

Elinda’s Glove

Thou snowy Farm with thy five Tenements!

Tell thy white Mistress here was one

That called to pay his daily Rents:

But she agathering Flowers and Hearts is gone,

And thou left void to rude Possession.

But grieve not pretty Ermine Cabinet,

Thy Alabaster Lady will come home;

If not, what Tenant can there fit

The slender turnings of thy narrow Room,

But must ejected be by his own doom?

Then give me leave to leave my Rent with thee;

Five kisses, one unto a place:

For though the Lute’s too high for me;

Yet Servants knowing Minikin nor Base,

Are still allowed to fiddle with the Case.

La Bella Bona Roba

Tell me, ye subtill judges in loves treasury,

Inform me, which hath most inricht mine eye,

This diamonds greatnes, or its clarity?

Ye cloudy spark lights, whose vast multitude

Of fires are harder to be found then view’d,

Waite on this star in her first magnitude.