Melpomene: or, The muses delight: Being new poems and songs. Written by several of the great wits of our present age, as I.D. T.F. S.W. T.S. C.O. I.B. &c. Collected together, and now printed.

To his Dead Mistriss at her Tomb.

WIth bowed thoughts, low as this hollow Cell, Where thy warm youth eternally must dwell: With Eyes out-vying this curl'd Marbles sweat, (My treasures proud usurping Cabinet) With the poor heart, which once thou gav'st relief, And that poor heart fir'd with all zealous grief, I come to parley with thy Sacred Clay, And with thy Ghost hold mournful Holy-day; To offer on this place where thou'rt inshrin'd This sigh, more churlish than the Southern wind,

Whose persume shall mount heaven, and there controul The swift departure of thy winged Soul.

Pale Maid, far whiter than the milky way Which now thou tread'st; or if I all may say, Fair as thou living wert; What erring hand Hath carry'd thee into this silent Land? Who cropt the Rose and Lilly from thy face, To plant in this same dull and barren place, Where nothing, like thy self, can ever rise, Although I daily water't with mine Eyes? Say, (thou who didst of late to me appear Brighter than Titan in our Hemisphear) What sullen change hath thus Eclipsed thee, And cast this Earth betwixt thine Eyes and me? Adulterous Feaver, worse than Tarquins brood, Who mixt thy lustful heat with her warm blood? Who sent, who fann'd the flames to such a height Within her veins, as did burn out her light? 'Twas not thy work, great Love, thy active darts Convey no burning Feavers to our hearts;

But move in blood-warm fires, whose livelihood By calm degrees ripens the tender bud Of pure affections. If the Rule be sure, That Souls do follow bodies temp'rature, Then by her purer Soul I may conclude That not the least distemper durst intrude Upon her body, no Crisis could be, For that there was such perfect harmony In her blest Fabrick, as if Nature had Weigh'd out the sweet materials ere she clad Her in her fleshly Robe. I oft have read Gods have their heavenly Thrones abandoned, And feign'd mortality, to compass so Our brighter shining heavens here below, Women. Sure it was so; some higher power Looking from off his all-commanding Tower, First on our constant Love, then on thy Face, Grew proud to Rival me, envy'd my place, Came cloathed all in flames, and Courted thee, As erst the Thunderer did Semele:

Laying her fate on thee to dye i'th' place, And be consumed in the hot embrace: Whil'st I that once enjoy'd a libertie Kings could not claim, to love and honour thee, And knew my self to be above the strain Of our best Monarchs to be lov'd again, Now 'rest of all, can unto nought aspire But these sad Reliques of my former fire: These ashes in this leaden sheet enroll'd Cold as my bitter hopes, oh! bitter cold!

Pretty Corruption! that I sighing cou'd Breath life in thee, or weeping showre warm blood Into thy veins! for I do envy thee Thy Crown of Bliss, now thou art t'ane from me. My griefs run high, and my distracted brain Like the wing'd billows of the angry Main, When it attempts to flie into the Air, Falls into thousand drops of moist despair. 'Tis true, thou living wert as gently calm As Lovers whispers, or a Sea of balm:

Yet, when I think that all this now is dust, The fancy breaks upon me, like the gust Of a high-going Sea, whose fury threats More than my reason well can brook, and beats Her wounded Ribs; this must a Wrack portend, Or sure some proneness to a desperate end! It calls me Coward, and to that does add, False-hearted lover, that at least ne'r had Spark of a Turtles fire; whose patience Can brook the World, now thou art t'ane from hence. It wrongs my breast, gives my true heart the lye, And sayes I never lov'd, I dare not dye. And yet I dare! — I dare an inroad make Upon the tedious breath which now I take: I could out-work Times Sickle; I could mow My blooming youth down even at one blow; Which he hath labour'd at, but yet not done So many births of the renewing Sun. I have keen steel, and a resolved Arm Back'd by despair, and grief to any harm.

But should I strike, Dear, thou wouldst vail thy Face With thy white Robe, and blush me to a place VVhere nought was ever heard but shreeks and howls Of the condemned, and tormented Souls. No, when my eyes glance here, and view how still This sprightly Peer now lies, the sight does chill My desperate fury, and a Christian fear Commands me quench this wild-fire with a tear. This very touch of thy cold hand does swage My hot design and irreligious rage.

But, 'tis not manners thus to keep thee from The silent quiet of Elizium. I will but add a word or two, and then Cast thee into thy long dead-sleep agen.

Your favour, holy linnen, happy Shrowd, (For I must draw away this snowy cloud From off her whiter face) and witness now Ye Gods, unto an Orphan Lovers vow.

By these blind Cupids, these two Springs of light Now hood-wink't in the endless masque of night:

By this well-shapen promont, whose smooth end Like to a mount of Ivory doth bend Toward this Red-sea, upon whose Corral-shore I had rich Traffick once, but never more Must deal in: By thy self, and if there were A better thing for me, by that I'd swear, That thou shalt not, (like others,) lie and rot With thy fair name, fair as thy self, forgot; But thy Idea shall inform my brains Like the Intelligence that holds the reins Of both the Orbs; I will not know the day, But as it hath a lustre like the ray Of thy bright Eye; and when the Night is come, 'Tis like the quiet of thy silent Tomb.

Last, I will only live to grief, and be Thy Epitaph unto Posteritie; That whoso sees me, reads, Yonder she lies, For whom this widdow'd Lover ever dies.

And witness Heaven, now I this Oath have took, I kiss, and shut, the Alabaster-Book.