Poems, by J.D. VVith elegies on the authors death

To the Countesse of Bedford.

MADAME,

YOu have refin'd mee, and to worthyest things Vertue, Art, Beauty, Fortune, now I see Rarenesse, or use, not nature value brings; And such, as they are circumstanc'd, they bee. Two ills can nere perplexe us, sinne to'excuse; But of two good things, we may leave and chuse.

Therefore at Court, which is not vertues clime, (Where a transcendent height, (as, lownesse mee) Makes her not be, or not show: all my rime Your vertues challenge, which there rarest bee; For, as darke texts need notes: there some must bee To usher vertue, and say, This is shee.

So in the country'is beauty; to this place You are the season (Madame) you the day, 'Tis but a grave of spices, till your face Exhale them, and a thick close bud display. Widow'd and reclus'd else, her sweets she'enshrines As China, when the Sunne at Brasill dines.

Out from your chariot, morning breaks at night, And falsifies both computations so; Since a new world doth rise here from your light, We your new creatures, by new recknings goe. This showes that you from nature lothly stray, That suffer not an artificiall day.

In this you'have made the Court the Antipodes, And will'd your Delegate, the vulgar Sunne, To doe profane autumnall offices, Whilst here to you, wee sacrificers runne; And whether Priests, or Organs, you wee'obey, We sound your influence, and your Dictates say▪

Yet to that Deity which dwels in you, Your vertuous Soule, I now not sacrifice; These are Petitions, and not Hymnes; they sue But that I may survay the edifice. In all Religions as much care hath bin Of Temples frames, and beauty, 'as Rites within.

As all which goe to Rome, doe not thereby Esteeme religions, and hold fast the best, But serve discourse, and curiosity, With that which doth religion but invest, And shunne th'entangling laborinths of Schooles, And make it wit, to thinke the wiser fooles▪

So in this pilgrimage I would behold You as you'are vertues temple, not as shee, What walls of tender christall her enfold, What eyes, hands, bosome, her pure Altars bee; And after this survay, oppose to all Bablers of Chappels, you th'Escuriall.

Yet not as consecrate, but merely'as faire; On these I cast a lay and country eye. Of past and future stories, which are rare, I finde you all record, and prophecie. Purge but the booke of Fate, that it admit No sad nor guilty legends, you are it.

If good and lovely were not one, of both You were the transcript, and originall, The Elements, the Parent, and the Growth And every peece of you, is both their All, So'intire are all your deeds, and you, that you Must do the same things still: you cannot two.

But these (as nice thinne Schoole divinity Serves heresie to furder or represse)

Tast of Poëtique rage, or flattery, And need not, where all hearts one truth professe; Oft from new proofes, and new phrase, new doubts grow, As strange attire aliens the men wee know.

Leaving then busie praise, and all appeale, To higher Courts, senses decree is true, The Mine, the Magazine, the Commonweale, The story of beauty', in Twicknam is, and you. Who hath seene one, would both; As, who had bin In Paradise, would seeke the Cherubin.