Poems by J.C. ; with additions.

TO THE STATE of LOVE, OR, The Senses Festival.

I Saw a Vision yesternight Enough to tempt a Seekers sight: I wisht my self a Shaker there, And her quick pulse my trembling sphear. It was a She so glittering bright: You'd think her soul an Adamite. A person of so rare a frame, Her bodie might be lin'd with'same. Beauties chiefest Maid of Honour: You'd break a Lent with looking on her. Not the fair Abbess of the skies, With all her Nunnery of eyes, Can shew me such a glorious prize. And yet, because 't is more renown To make a shadow shine, she's brown; A brown, for which, Heaven would disband The Gallaxye, and stars be tann'd. Brown by reflection, as her eye Dazels the Summers livery.

Old dormant windows must confesse, Her beams their glimmering spectacles; Struck with the splendour of her face, Do th' office of a burning-glass. Now, where such radiant lights have shown, No wonder if her cheeks be grown Sun-burnt with lustre of her own. My sight took pay, but (thank my charms) I now empale her in mine arms, (Loves Compasses) confining you Good Angels, to a Compass too. Is not the Universe strait-lac't, When I can clasp it in the Waste? My amorous foulds about thee hurl'd, With Drake, I compass in the world. I hoop the Firmament, and make; This my Embrace the Zodiack. How would thy Center take my Sense, When Admiration doth commense, At the extream Circumference. Now to the melting kiss that sips The jelly'd Philtre of her lips So sweet, there is no tongue can phras't, Till transubstantiate with a taste, Inspit'd like Mahomet from above, By th' billing of my heav'nly Dove; Love prints her Signets in her smacks, Those Ruddy drops of squeezing wax; Which, wheresoever she imparts, They're Privie Seals to take up hearts.

Our Mouthes encountering at the sport, My slippery soul had quit the fort, But that she stopt the Salley-port. Next to those sweets her lips dispence, As Twin-conserves of Eloquence; The sweet perfume her breath affords; Incorporating with her words; No Rosary this Votress needs, Her very syllables are beads. No sooner 'twixt those Rubies born▪ But Jewels are in Ear-rings worn. With what delight her speech doth enter, It is a kiss oth' second venter. And I dissolve at what I hear, As if another Rosomond were Couch'd in the Labyrinth of my Ear. Yet, that 's but a preludious bliss; Two souls pickearing in a kiss. Embraces do but draw the Line, 'Tis storming that must take her in. When Bodies whine, and victory hovers 'Twixt the equal fluttering Lovers, This is the game, make stakes my Dear, Hark how the sprightly Chanticlere, That Baron Tell-clock of the night, Sounds Boot-esel to Cupids knight. Then have at all, the pass is got, For coming off, oh name it not: Who would not die upon the spot.