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To Ostella upon her Reproving me and Councelling me from some Inconveniences.
THe Breath of Winter that doth Curd the Earth
to give the Season free and timely Birth
Comes not so sharply violent as this,
from you to me, 't hath nipt the budding Blisse
In me, your Beams of Goodnesse cherisht. All
the Comforts I receiv'd from this sweet Gall
Is this, that I to You may be more Pure,
you pierce my Heart to make a way for Cure.
It is a stinging Salve, a tickling Smart,
a pleasing Potion, that doth turn my Heart
Into faint Qualms, to clear and set it right,
a bitter Prologue to a sweet Delight.
A sharp Reproof brings Mercy in the end,
so Iudges Chide when Pardon they intend.
Unskilfull Surgeons may the Vlcerous place:
make, by false Applications in worse case
And when they see the Vertue of their Skill
extends not to a Cure, make hast to Kill.
But thou, Physitian-like, wisely do'st give
Cor'sives where needed, and the Lenitive
In its due place, that the afflicted Sense
may gather something Cordial from thence.
Thy Councel to my Ears did cruel seem
but the effect on't did my Heart redeem,
From the loose humours that were gath'ring to
a Head, its prim'tive whitenesse to undo
So Physick when Diseases do abound,
doth make Vs sharply Sick e're perfect Sound,