Of The Lady Who Can Sleep When She Pleases.[1]

No wonder sleep from careful lovers flies, To bathe himself in Saccharissa's eyes. As fair Astraæ once from earth to heaven, By strife and loud impiety was driven; So with our plaints offended, and our tears, Wise Somnus to that paradise repairs; Waits on her will, and wretches does forsake, To court the nymph for whom those wretches wake. More proud than Phoebus of his throne of gold Is the soft god those softer limbs to hold; Nor would exchange with Jove, to hide the skies In dark'ning clouds, the power to close her eyes; Eyes which so far all other lights control, They warm our mortal parts, but these our soul! Let her free spirit, whose unconquer'd breast Holds such deep quiet and untroubled rest, Know that though Venus and her son should spare Her rebel heart, and never teach her care, Yet Hymen may in force his vigils keep, And for another's joy suspend her sleep.

She is said to have been like Dudu--

'Large, and languishing, and lazy, Yet of a beauty that might drive you crazy.'

OF THE MISREPORT OF HER BEING PAINTED.

As when a sort of wolves infest the night With their wild howlings at fair Cynthia's light, The noise may chase sweet slumber from our eyes, But never reach the mistress of the skies; So with the news of Saccharissa's wrongs, Her vexed servants blame those envious tongues; Call Love to witness that no painted fire Can scorch men so, or kindle such desire; While, unconcern'd, she seems moved no more With this new malice than our loves before; But from the height of her great mind looks down On both our passions without smile or frown. So little care of what is done below Hath the bright dame whom Heaven affecteth so! Paints her, 'tis true, with the same hand which spreads Like glorious colours through the flow'ry meads, When lavish Nature, with her best attire, Clothes the gay spring, the season of desire; Paints her, 'tis true, and does her cheek adorn With the same art wherewith she paints the morn; With the same art wherewith she gildeth so Those painted clouds which form Thaumantias' bow.

OF HER PASSING THROUGH A CROWD OF PEOPLE.

As in old chaos (heaven with earth confused, And stars with rocks together crush'd and bruised) The sun his light no further could extend Than the next hill, which on his shoulders lean'd; So in this throng bright Saccharissa fared, Oppress'd by those who strove to be her guard; As ships, though never so obsequious, fall Foul in a tempest on their admiral. A greater favour this disorder brought Unto her servants than their awful thought Durst entertain, when thus compell'd they press'd The yielding marble of her snowy breast. While love insults, disguised in the cloud, And welcome force, of that unruly crowd. So th'am'rous tree, while yet the air is calm, Just distance keeps from his desired palm; But when the wind her ravish'd branches throws Into his arms, and mingles all their boughs, Though loth he seems her tender leaves to press, More loth he is that friendly storm should cease, From whose rude bounty he the double use At once receives, of pleasure and excuse.

'Insults': exults. 'Palm': Ovalle informs us that the palm-trees in Chili have this wonderful property, that they never will bear any fruit but when they are planted near each other; and when they find one standing barren by itself, if they plant another, be it never so small (which they call the female), it will become prolific.--FENTON.

THE STORY OF PHOEBUS AND DAPHNE, APPLIED.

Thyrsis, a youth of the inspirèd train, Fair Saccharissa loved, but loved in vain; Like Phoebus sung the no less am'rous boy; Like Daphne she, as lovely, and as coy! With numbers he the flying nymph pursues, With numbers such as Phoebus' self might use! Such is the chase when Love and Fancy leads, O'er craggy mountains, and through flow'ry meads; Invoked to testify the lover's care, Or form some image of his cruel fair. Urged with his fury, like a wounded deer, O'er these he fled; and now approaching near, Had reach'd the nymph with his harmonious lay, Whom all his charms could not incline to stay. Yet what he sung in his immortal strain, Though unsuccessful, was not sung in vain; All, but the nymph that should redress his wrong, Attend his passion, and approve his song. Like Phoebus thus, acquiring unsought praise, He catch'd at love, and fill'd his arms with bays.

'Daphne': Ovid's Metamorphoses, b. i.

ON THE FRIENDSHIP BETWIXT SACCHARISSA AND AMORET.

1 Tell me, lovely, loving pair! Why so kind, and so severe? Why so careless of our care, Only to yourselves so dear?

2 By this cunning change of hearts, You the power of Love control; While the boy's deluded darts Can arrive at neither soul.

3 For in vain to either breast Still beguilèd Love does come, Where he finds a foreign guest, Neither of your hearts at home.

4 Debtors thus with like design, When they never mean to pay, That they may the law decline, To some friend make all away.

5 Not the silver doves that fly, Yoked in Cytherea's car; Not the wings that lift so high, And convey her son so far;

6 Are so lovely, sweet, and fair, Or do more ennoble love; Are so choicely match'd a pair, Or with more consent do move.