Poems, &c. By James Shirley.

To his honoured Friend, the Author, Upon his Poems.

WHilst I am in thy Poem, I am lead Through a rich Gallery, in which are spread The choicest Pictures of true skill and height, Where every pause is Rapture and Delight. Here, by thy Fancy taught Apollo Playes, To his own Daphne in a stand of Bayes; Here Myrtle Shades are, there the Cypresse Groves; Here Lovers sigh, and there embrace their Loves: By—through a flowry vale, there gently glides A silver stream, whose pratling current chides It self in Turtle-murmures, and betraid To every eye, like to some bashful maid Discover'd in her beauties, fain would hast To hide those blushes which do speak her chast. Here thy Narcissus in his lov'd despair, Courts all the rest to silence; sweet and fair, His love, and sorrow shews him; but to hear Him breath 'em thus, who would not be all eare? What in his story did before but move Our pity, we do now admire, and love Beyond himself; so every maid would be His kind Nymphs Rival, borrowing from thee

Those charmes of love and language, where thy Art Gives Cupid feathers unto every dart. Thy Poem is as lovely, and all wit Thy Eccho is, and making love to it: Let Ovid boast their story, but their names Will take Eternity from thee, dear James.

GEO. BUCKE.