text,updated_at,metaphor,created_at,context,theme,reviewed_on,dictionary,comments,provenance,id,work_id
"To you whose Dignity strikes us with aw,
And whose far greater Judgment gives us law,
(Your Mind b'ing more transcendent than your State,
For while but Knees to this, Hearts bow to that,)
These humble Papers never durst come near,
Had not your pow'rful Word bid them appear;
In which such majesty, such sweetness dwells,
As in one act obliges, and compels.
None can dispute commands vouchsaf'd by you.
What shall my fears then and confusion do?
They must resign, and by their just pretence
Some value set on my obedience.
For in religious Duties, 'tis confest,
The most Implicite are accepted best.
If on that score your Highness will excuse
This blushing tribute of an artless Muse,
She may (encourag'd by your least regard,
Which first can worth create, and then reward)
At modest distance with improved strains
That Mercy celebrate which now she gains.
But should you that severer justice use,
Which these too prompt Approches may produce,
As the swift Hinde which hath escaped long,
Believes a Vulgar shot would be a wrong;
But wounded by a Prince falls without shame,
And what in life she loses, gains in fame:
So if a Ray from you chance to be sent,
Which to consume, and not to warm, is meant;
My trembling Muse at least more nobly dies,
And falls by that a truer sacrifice.",2009-09-14 19:34:14 UTC,""" (Your Mind b'ing more transcendent than your State, / For while but Knees to this, Hearts bow to that,)""",2005-04-20 00:00:00 UTC,I've included the entire poem,"",,"","",Searching in HDIS (Poetry),9472,3649
"If I could ever write a lasting Verse,
It should be laid, dear Saint, upon thy Herse.
But Sorrow is no Muse, and does confess
That it least can what it would most express.
Yet that I may some bounds to grief allow,
I'le try if I can weep in Numbers now.
Ah beauteous Blossom too untimely dead!
Whither? ah whither is thy sweetness fled?
Where are the charms that alwaies did arise
From the prevailing language of thy Eyes?
Where is thy beauteous and lovely meen,
And all the wonders that in thee were seen?
Alas! in vain, in vain on thee I rave;
There is no pity in the stupid Grave.
But so the Bankrupt sitting on the brim
Of those fierce billows which had ruin'd him,
Begs for his lost Estate, and does complain
To the inexorable Flouds in vain.
As well we may enquire when Roses die,
To what retirement their sweet Odours flie;
Whither their Virtues and their Blushes haste,
When the short triumph of their life is past;
Or call their perishing Beauties back with tears,
As adde one moment to thy finish'd years.
No, thou art gone, and thy presaging Mind
So thriftily thy early hours design'd,
That hasty Death was baffled in his Pride,
Since nothing of thee but thy Body dy'd.
Thy Soul was up betimes, and so concern'd
To grasp all Excellence that could be learn'd,
That finding nothing fill her thirsting here,
To the Spring-head she went to quench it there;
And so prepar'd, that being freed from sin
She quickly might become a Cherubin.
Thou wert all Soul, and through thy Eyes it shin'd:
Asham'd and angry to be so confin'd,
It long'd to be uncag'd, and thither flown
Where it might know as clearly as 'twas known.
In these vast hopes we might thy change have found,
But that Heav'n blinds whom it decrees to wound.
For Parts so soon at so sublime a pitch,
A Judgment so mature, Fancy so rich,
Never appear unto unthankful Men,
But as a Vision to be hid again.
So glorious Seenes in Masques, Spectators view
With the short pleasure of an hour or two;
But that once past, the Ornaments are gone,
The Lights extinguish'd, and the Curtains drawn.
Yet all these Gifts were thy less noble part,
Nor was thy Head so worthy as thy Heart;
Where the Divine Impression shin'd so clear,
As snatch'd thee hence, and yet endear'd thee here:
For what in thee did most command our love
Was both the cause and sign of thy remove.
Such fools are we, so fatally we choose:
That what we most would keep we soonest loose.
The humble greatness of thy Pious thought,
Sweetness unforc'd, and Bashfulness untaught,
The native Candour of thine open breast,
And all the Beams wherein thy Worth was drest,
Thy Wit so bright, so piercing and immense,
Adorn'd with wise and lovely Innocence,
Might have foretold thou wert not so compleat,
But that our joy might be as short as great,
So the poor Swain beholds his ripened Corn
By some rough Wind without a Sickle torn.
Never, ah! never let sad Parents guess
At one remove of future happiness:
But reckon Children 'mong those passing joys
Which one hour gives, and the next hour destroys.
Alas! we were secure of our content;
But find too late that it was onely lent,
To be a Mirrour wherein we may see
How frail we are, how spotless we should be.
But if to thy blest Soul my grief appears,
Forgive and pity these injurious tears:
Impute them to Affections sad excess,
Which will not yield to Nature's tenderness,
Since 'twas through dearest ties and highest trust
Continued from thy Cradle to thy Dust;
And so rewarded and confirm'd by thine,
That (wo is me!) I thought thee too much mine.
But I'le resign, and follow thee as fast
As my unhappy Minutes will make hast.
Till when the fresh remembrances of thee
Shall be my Emblems of Mortality.
For such a loss as this (bright Soul!) is not
Ever to be repaired or forgot.",2009-09-14 19:34:14 UTC,"""Nor was thy Head so worthy as thy Heart; / Where the Divine Impression shin'd so clear""",2005-05-16 00:00:00 UTC,I've included entire poem,"",,Impression,"","Searching ""impression"" and ""heart"" HDIS (Poetry); found again ""head""",9474,3650
"You justly may forsake a Land which you
Have found so guilty and so fatal too.
Fortune, injurious to your Innocence,
Shot all her poison'd arrows here, or hence.
'Twas here bold Rebels once your Life pursu'd
(To whom 'twas Treason only to be rude,)
Till you were forc'd by their unwearied spight
(O glorious Criminal!) to take your flight.
Whence after you all that was Humane fled;
For here, oh! here the Royal Martyr bled,
Whose cause and heart must be divine and high,
That having you could be content to die.
Here they purloin'd what we to you did owe,
And paid you in variety of woe.
Yet all those billows in your breast did meet
A heart so firm, so loyal, and so sweet,
That over them you greater conquest made
Than your Immortal Father ever had.
For we may read in story of some few
That fought like him, none that indur'd like you:
Till Sorrow blush'd to act what Traitors meant,
And Providence it self did first repent.
But as our Active, so our Passive, ill
Hath made your share to be the sufferer's still.
As from our Mischiefs all your troubles grew,
'Tis your sad right to suffer for them too.
Else our Great Charles had not been hence so long,
Nor the Illustrious Glou'ster dy'd so young:
Nor had we lost a Princess all confest
To be the greatest, wisest, and the best;
Who leaving colder parts, but less unkind,
(For it was here she set, and there she shin'd,)
Did to a most ungrateful Climate come
To make a Visit, and to find a Tomb.
So that we should as much your smile despair,
As of your stay in this unpurged air;
But that your Mercy doth exceed our Crimes
As much as your Example former times,
And will forgive our Off'rings, though the flame
Does tremble still betwixt regret and shame.
For we have justly suffered more than you
By the sad guilt of all your suff'rings too.
As you the great Idea have been seen
Of either fortune, and in both a Queen,
Live still triumphant by the noblest wars,
And justifie your reconciled stars.
See your Offenders for your mercy bow,
And your try'd Virtue all Mankind allow;
While you to such a Race have given birth,
As are contended for by Heaven and Earth.",2009-09-14 19:34:15 UTC,"""Yet all those billows in your breast did meet / A heart so firm, so loyal, and so sweet, / That over them you greater conquest made / Than your Immortal Father ever had.""",2005-05-31 00:00:00 UTC,I've included entire poem,"",,"","",Searching in HDIS (Poetry),9484,3656
"Eternal Reason, Glorious Majesty,
Compar'd to whom what can be said to be?
Whose Attributes are Thee, who art alone
Cause of all various things, and yet but One;
Whose Essence can no more be search'd by Man,
Then Heav'n thy Throne be grasped with a Span.
Yet if this great Creation was design'd
To several ends fitted for every kind;
Sure Man (the World's Epitome must be
Form'd to the best, that is, to study thee.
And as our Dignity, 'tis Duty too,
Which is summ'd up in this, to know and do.
These comely rows of Creatures spell thy Name,
Whereby we grope to find from whence they came,
By thy own Chain of Causes brought to think
There must be one, then find that highest Link.
Thus all created Excellence we see
Is a resemblance faint and dark of thee.
Such shadows are produc'd by the Moon-beams
Of Trees or Houses in the running streams.
Yet by Impressions born with us we find
How good, great, just thou art, how unconfin'd.
Here we are swallowed up and gladly dwell,
Safely adoring what we cannot tell.
All we know is, thou art supremely good,
And dost delight to be so understood.
A spicy Mountain on the Universe,
On which thy richest Odours do disperse.
But as the Sea to fill a Vessel heaves
More greedily than any Cask receives,
Besieging round to find some gap in it,
Which will a new Infusion admit:
So dost thou covet that thou mayst dispence
Upon the empty World thy Influence;
Lov'st to disburse thy self in kindness: Thus
The King of Kings waits to be gracious.
On this account, O God, enlarge my heart
To entertain what thou wouldst fain impart.
Nor let that Soul, by several titles thine,
And most capacious form'd for things Divine,
(So nobly meant, that when it most doth miss,
'Tis in mistaken pantings after Bliss)
Degrade it self in sordid things delight,
Or by prophaner mixtures lose its right.
Oh! that with fixt unbroken thoughts it may
Admire the light which does obscure the day.
And since 'tis Angels work it hath to do,
May its composure be like Angels too.
When shall these clogs of Sense and Fancy break,
That I may hear the God within me speak?
When with a silent and retired art
Shall I with all this empty hurry part?
To the Still Voice above, my Soul, advance;
My light and joy plac'd in his Countenance.
By whose dispence my Soul to such frame brought,
My tame each trech'rous, fix each scat'ring thought;
With such distinctions all things here behold,
And so to separate each dross from gold,
That nothing my free Soul may satisfie,
But t'imitate, enjoy, and study thee.",2009-09-14 19:34:15 UTC,"""Yet by Impressions born with us we find/ How good, great, just thou art, how unconfin'd.""",2005-05-31 00:00:00 UTC,I've included entire poem,Innate Ideas,,Impression,"",Searching in HDIS (Poetry),9489,3661
"Eternal Reason, Glorious Majesty,
Compar'd to whom what can be said to be?
Whose Attributes are Thee, who art alone
Cause of all various things, and yet but One;
Whose Essence can no more be search'd by Man,
Then Heav'n thy Throne be grasped with a Span.
Yet if this great Creation was design'd
To several ends fitted for every kind;
Sure Man (the World's Epitome must be
Form'd to the best, that is, to study thee.
And as our Dignity, 'tis Duty too,
Which is summ'd up in this, to know and do.
These comely rows of Creatures spell thy Name,
Whereby we grope to find from whence they came,
By thy own Chain of Causes brought to think
There must be one, then find that highest Link.
Thus all created Excellence we see
Is a resemblance faint and dark of thee.
Such shadows are produc'd by the Moon-beams
Of Trees or Houses in the running streams.
Yet by Impressions born with us we find
How good, great, just thou art, how unconfin'd.
Here we are swallowed up and gladly dwell,
Safely adoring what we cannot tell.
All we know is, thou art supremely good,
And dost delight to be so understood.
A spicy Mountain on the Universe,
On which thy richest Odours do disperse.
But as the Sea to fill a Vessel heaves
More greedily than any Cask receives,
Besieging round to find some gap in it,
Which will a new Infusion admit:
So dost thou covet that thou mayst dispence
Upon the empty World thy Influence;
Lov'st to disburse thy self in kindness: Thus
The King of Kings waits to be gracious.
On this account, O God, enlarge my heart
To entertain what thou wouldst fain impart.
Nor let that Soul, by several titles thine,
And most capacious form'd for things Divine,
(So nobly meant, that when it most doth miss,
'Tis in mistaken pantings after Bliss)
Degrade it self in sordid things delight,
Or by prophaner mixtures lose its right.
Oh! that with fixt unbroken thoughts it may
Admire the light which does obscure the day.
And since 'tis Angels work it hath to do,
May its composure be like Angels too.
When shall these clogs of Sense and Fancy break,
That I may hear the God within me speak?
When with a silent and retired art
Shall I with all this empty hurry part?
To the Still Voice above, my Soul, advance;
My light and joy plac'd in his Countenance.
By whose dispence my Soul to such frame brought,
My tame each trech'rous, fix each scat'ring thought;
With such distinctions all things here behold,
And so to separate each dross from gold,
That nothing my free Soul may satisfie,
But t'imitate, enjoy, and study thee.",2009-09-14 19:34:15 UTC,"""When shall these clogs of Sense and Fancy break, / That I may hear the God within me speak?""",2005-05-31 00:00:00 UTC,I've included entire poem,"",,"","•INTEREST. The senses are ""clog"" or, perhaps, earplugs that prevent us from hearing a voice within. ",Searching in HDIS (Poetry),9490,3661
"'Tis so, and humbly I my will resign,
Nor dare dispute with Providence Divine.
In vain, alas! we struggle with our chains,
But more entangled by the fruitless pains.
For as i'th' great Creation of this All,
Nothing by chance could in such order fall;
And what would single be deform'd confest,
Grows beauteous in its union with the rest:
So Providence like Wisdom we allow,
(For what created once does govern now)
And the same Fate that seems to one Reverse,
Is necessary to the Universe.
All these particular and various things,
Link'd to their Causes by such secret Springs,
Are held so fast, and govern'd by such Art,
That nothing can out of its order start.
The World's God's watch, where nothing is so small,
But makes a part of what composes all:
Could the least Pin be lost or else displac'd,
The World would be disorder'd and defac'd.
It beats no Pulse in vain, but keeps its time,
And undiscern'd to its own height doth climb;
Strung first, and daily wound up by his hand
Who can its motions guide and understand.
No secret cunning then nor multitude
Can Providence divert, cross or delude.
And her just full decrees are hidden things,
Which harder are to find then Births of Springs.
Yet all in various Consorts fitly sound,
And by their Discords Harmony compound.
Hence is that Order, Life and Energy,
Whereby Forms are preserv'd though Matters die;
And shifting dress keep their own living state:
So that what kills this, does that propagate.
This made the ancient Sage in Rapture cry,
That fore the world had full Eternity.
For though it self to Time and Fate submit,
He's above both who made and governs it;
And to each Creature hath such Portion lent,
As Love and Wisdom sees convenient.
For he's no Tyrant, nor delights to grieve
The Beings which from him alone can live.
He's most concern'd, and hath the greatest share
In man, and therefore takes the greatest care
To make him happy, who alone can be
So by Submission and Conformity.
For why should Changes here below surprize,
When the whole World its revolution tries?
Where were our Springs, our Harvests pleasant use,
Unless Vicissitude did them produce?
Nay, what can be so wearisome a pain
As when no Alterations entertain?
To lose, to suffer, to be sick and die,
Arrest us by the same Necessity.
Nor could they trouble us, but that our mind
Hath its own glory unto dross confin'd.
For outward things remove not from their place,
Till our Souls run to beg their mean embrace;
Then doting on the choice make it our own,
By placing Trifles in th' Opinion's Throne.
So when they are divorc'd by some new cross,
Our Souls seem widow'd by the fatal loss:
But could we keep our Grandeur and our state,
Nothing below would seem unfortunate;
But Grace and Reason, which best succours bring,
Would with advantage manage every thing;
And by right Judgment would prevent our moan
For losing that which never was our own.
For right Opinion's like a Marble grott,
In Summer cool, and in the Winter hot;
A Principle which in each Fortune lives,
Bestowing Catholick Preservatives.
'Tis this resolves, there are no losses where
Vertue and Reason are continued there.
The meanest Soul might such a Fortune share,
But no mean Soul could so that Fortune bear.
Thus I compose my thoughts grown insolent,
As th' Irish Harper doth his Instrument;
Which if once struck doth murmur and complain,
But the next touch will silence all again.",2009-09-14 19:34:16 UTC,"""Nor could they trouble us, but that our mind / Hath its own glory unto dross confin'd.""",2005-07-18 00:00:00 UTC,I've included entire poem,"",,Metal,"","Searching ""mind"" and ""dross"" in HDIS (Poetry)",9508,3662
"As when the ancient World by Reason liv'd,
The Asian Monarchs deaths were never griev'd;
Their glorious Lives made all their Subjects call
Their Rites a Triumph, not a Funeral:
So still the Good are Princes, and their Fate
Invites us not to weep, but imitate.
Nature intends a progress of each stage
Whereby weak Man creeps to succeeding Age,
Ripens him for that Change for which he's made,
Where th' active Soul is in her Centre staid.
And since none stript of Infancy complain,
'Cause 'tis both their necessity and gain:
So Age and Death by slow approches come,
And by that just inevitable doom
By which the Soul (her cloggy dross once gone)
Puts on Perfection, and resumes her own.
Since then we mourn a happy Soul, O why
Disturb we her with erring Piety?
Who's so enamour'd on the beauteous Ground,
When with rich Autumn's livery hung round,
As to deny a Sickle to his Grain,
And not undress the teeming Earth again?
Fruits grow for use, Mankind is born to die;
And both Fates have the same necessity.
Then grieve no more, sad Relatives, but learn;
Sigh not, but profit by your just concern.
Read over her Life's volume: wise and good,
Not 'cause she must be so, but 'cause she wou'd.
To chosen Vertue still a constant friend,
She saw the Times which chang'd, but did not mend.
And as some are so civil to the Sun,
They'd fix his beams, and make the Earth to run:
So she unmov'd beheld the angry Fate
Which tore a Church, and overthrew a State:
Still durst be Good, and own the noble Truth,
To crown her Age which had adorn'd her Youth.
Great without Pride, a Soul which still could be
Humble and high, full of calm Majesty.
She kept true state within, and could not buy
Her Satisfaction with her Charity.
Fortune or Birth ne're rais'd her Mind, which stood
Not on her being rich, but doing good.
Oblig'd the World, but yet would scorn to be
Paid with Requitals, Thanks or Vanity.
How oft did she what all the World adore,
Make the Poor happy with her useful store?
So general was her Bounty, that she gave
Equality to all before the Grave.
By several means she different persons ty'd,
Who by her Goodness onely were ally'd.
Her Vertue was her Temper, not her Fit;
Fear'd nothing but the Crimes which some commit;
Scorn'd those dark Arts which pass for Wisdom now,
Nor to a mean ignoble thing could bow.
And her vast Prudence had no other end,
But to forgive a Foe, endear a Friend:
To use, but slight, the World; and fixt above,
Shine down in beams of Piety and Love.
Why should we then by poor unjust complaint
Prove envious Sinners 'cause she is a Saint?
Close then the Monument; let not a Tear
That may prophane her Ashes now appear:
For her best Obsequies are that we be
Prudent and Good, Noble and Sweet, as she.",2009-09-14 19:34:16 UTC,"""So Age and Death by slow approches come, / And by that just inevitable doom / By which the Soul (her cloggy dross once gone) / Puts on Perfection, and resumes her own.""",2005-05-16 00:00:00 UTC,I've included entire poem,"",,"","","Searching ""impression"" and ""heart"" HDIS (Poetry); found again ""head""",9509,3663
"What on Earth deserves our trust?
Youth and Beauty both are dust.
Long we gathering are with pain,
What one moment calls again.
Seven years childless, marriage past,
A Son, a son is born at last:
So exactly lim'd and fair,
Full of good Spirits, Meen, and Air,
As a long life promised,
Yet, in less than six weeks dead.
Too promising, too great a mind
In so small room to be confin'd:
Therefore, as fit in Heav'n to dwell,
He quickly broke the Prison shell.
So the subtle Alchimist,
Can't with Hermes Seal resist
The powerful spirit's subtler flight,
But t'will bid him long good night.
And so the Sun if it arise
Half so glorious as his Eyes,
Like this Infant, takes a shrowd,
Buried in a morning Cloud.",2009-09-14 19:34:16 UTC,"""Too promising, too great a mind/ In so small room to be confin'd""",2005-08-29 00:00:00 UTC,I've included entire poem,"",,Rooms,•Wow.,"Searching ""mind"" and ""room"" in HDIS (Poetry)",9510,3664
"Shine out rich Soul! to greatness be,
What it can never be to thee,
An ornament; thou canst restore
The lustre which it had before
These ruines, own it and 'twill live,
Thy favour's more than Kings can give.
Hast more above all titles then
The bearers are above common men;
And so heroick art within,
Thou must descend to be a Queen.
Yet honour may convenient prove,
By giving thy Soul room to move:
Affording scene unto that mind,
Which is too great to be confin'd.
Wert thou with single vertue stor'd,
To be approv'd, but not ador'd;
Thou mightst retire, but who e're meant
A Palace for a Tenement?
Heaven has so built thee, that we find
Thee buried when thou art confin'd:
If thou in privacy would'st live,
Yet lustre to thy vertues give;
To stifle them for want of air,
Injurious is to Heavens care.
If thou wilt be immur'd, where
Shall thy obliging soul appear?
Where shall thy generous prudence be,
And where thy magnanimity?
Nay thy own Darling thou dost hide,
Thy self-denial is deny'd;
For he that never greatness tries,
Can never safely it despise.
That Antoninus writ well, when
He held a Scepter and Pen:
Less credit Solomon does bring
As a Philosopher than King;
So much advantage flows from hence,
To write by our Experience.
Diogenes I must suspect
Of envy, more than wise neglect,
When he his Prince so ill did treat,
And so much spurned at the great:
A censure is not clear from those
Whom Fate subjects, or does depose;
Nor can we greatness understand
From an opprest or fallen hand:
But 'tis some Prince must that define,
Or one that freely did resign.
A great Almanzor teaches thus,
Or else a Dionysius.
For to know Grandeur we must live
In that, and not in perspective;
Vouchsafe the tryal then, that thou
May'st safely wield, yet disallow
The World's temptations, and be still
Above whatever would thee fill.
Convince mankind, there's somewhat more
Great than the titles they adore:
Stand neer them, and 'twill soon be known
Thou hast more splendour of thy own;
Yield to the wanting Age, and be
Channel of true Nobility:
For from thy Womb such Heros need must rise,
Who Honours will deserve, and can despise.",2009-09-14 19:34:16 UTC,"""By giving thy Soul room to move: / Affording scene unto that mind, / Which is too great to be confin'd. [...]Thou mightst retire, but who e're meant / A Palace for a Tenement""",2005-08-29 00:00:00 UTC,I've included entire poem,"",,"","","Searching ""soul"" and ""room"" in HDIS (Poetry)",9511,3665
"If any could my dear Rosania hate,
They only should her Character relate.
Truth shines so bright there, that an Enemy
Would be a better Oratour then I.
Love stifles Language, and I must confess,
I had said more if I had loved less.
Yet the most critical who that Face see
Will ne're suspect a partiality.
Others by time and by degrees perswade,
But her first look doth every heart invade.
She hath a Face so eminently bright,
Would make a Lover of an Anchorite:
A Face where conquest mixt with modesty
Are both compleated in Divinity.
Not her least glance but sets a heart on fire,
And checks it if it should too much aspire.
Such is the Magick of her Looks, the same
Beam doth both kindle and refine our flame.
If she doth smile, no Painter e're would take
Another Rule when he would Mercy make.
And Heav'n to her such splendour hath allow'd,
That no one posture can her Beauty cloud:
For if she frown, none but would phansie then
Justice descended here to punish Men.
Her common looks I know not how to call
Any one Grace, they are compos'd of all.
And if we Mortals could the doctrine reach,
Her Eyes have language, and her Looks do teach.
And as in Palaces the outmost, worst
Rooms entertain our wonder at the first;
But once within the Presence-Chamber door,
We do despise what e're we saw before:
So when you with her Mind acquaintance get,
You'l hardly think upon the Cabinet.
Her Soul, that Ray shot from the Deity,
Doth still preserve its native purity;
Which Earth can neither threaten nor allure,
Nor by false joys defile it, or obscure.
The Innocence which in her heart doth dwell,
Angels themselves can only parrallel.
More gently soft then is an Evening-shower:
And in that sweetness there is coucht a Power,
Which scorning Pride, doth think it very hard
That Modesty should need so mean a Guard.
Her Honour is protected by her Eyes,
As the old Flaming Sword kept Paradise.
Such Constancy of Temper, Truth and Law,
Guides all her actions, that the World may draw
From her one Soul the noblest Precedent
Of the most safe, wise, vertuous Government.
And as the highest Element is clear
From all the Tempests which disturb the Air:
So she above the World and its rude noise,
Above our storms a quiet Calm enjoys.
Transcendent things her noble thoughts sublime,
Above the faults and trifles of the Time.
Unlike those Gallants which take far less care
To have their Souls, then make their Bodies fair;
Who (sick with too much leisure) time do pass
With these two books, Pride, and a Looking-glass:
Plot to surprize Mens hearts, their pow'r to try,
And call that Love, which is meer Vanity.
But she, although the greatest Murtherer,
(For ev'ry glance commits a Massacre)
Yet glories not that slaves her power confess,
But wishes that her Monarchy were less.
And if she love, it is not thrown away,
As many do, onely to spend the day;
But her's is serious, and enough alone
To make all Love become Religion.
And to her Friendship she so faithful is,
That 'tis her onely blot and prejudice:
For Envy's self could never errour see
Within that Soul, 'bating her love to me.
Now as I must confess the name of Friend
To her that all the World doth comprehend
Is a most wild Ambition; so for me
To draw her picture is flat Lunacy.
Oh! I must think the rest; for who can write
Or into words confine what's Infinite?",2009-09-14 19:34:16 UTC,"""And as in Palaces the outmost, worst / Rooms entertain our wonder at the first; / But once within the Presence-Chamber door, / We do despise what e're we saw before: / So when you with her Mind acquaintance get, / You'l hardly think upon the Cabinet.""",2005-09-07 00:00:00 UTC,I've included entire poem,"",,Rooms,"•I've included thrice: Cabinet, Rooms, Presence-Chamber","Searching ""mind"" and ""cabinet"" in HDIS (Poetry)",9512,3666