The Country To My Lady Carlisle.[1]

1 Madam, of all the sacred Muse inspired, Orpheus alone could with the woods comply; Their rude inhabitants his song admired, And Nature's self, in those that could not lie: Your beauty next our solitude invades, And warms us, shining through the thickest shades.

2 Nor ought the tribute, which the wond'ring Court Pays your fair eyes, prevail with you to scorn The answer and consent to that report Which, echo-like, the country does return: Mirrors are taught to flatter, but our springs Present th'impartial images of things.

3 A rural judge disposed of beauty's prize; A simple shepherd was preferr'd to Jove; Down to the mountains from the partial skies, Came Juno, Pallas, and the Queen of Love, To plead for that which was so justly given To the bright Carlisle of the court of heaven.

4 Carlisle! a name which all our woods are taught, Loud as their Amaryllis, to resound; Carlisle! a name which on the bark is wrought Of every tree that's worthy of the wound. From Phoebus' rage our shadows and our streams May guard us better than from Carlisle's beams.

'Lady Carlisle': the Lady Lucy Percy, daughter of the Earl of Northumberland, married against her father's wishes to the Earl of Carlisle. She was a wit and intriguante.

TO PHYLLIS.

Phyllis! 'twas love that injured you, And on that rock your Thrysis threw; Who for proud Celia could have died, While you no less accused his pride.

Fond Love his darts at random throws, And nothing springs from what he sows; From foes discharged, as often meet The shining points of arrows fleet, In the wide air creating fire, As souls that join in one desire.

Love made the lovely Venus burn In vain, and for the cold youth mourn, Who the pursuit of churlish beasts Preferr'd to sleeping on her breasts.

Love makes so many hearts the prize Of the bright Carlisle's conqu'ring eyes, Which she regards no more than they The tears of lesser beauties weigh. So have I seen the lost clouds pour Into the sea an useless shower; And the vex'd sailors curse the rain For which poor shepherds pray'd in vain.

Then, Phyllis, since our passions are Govern'd by chance, and not the care, But sport of heaven, which takes delight To look upon this Parthian fight Of love, still flying, or in chase, Never encount'ring face to face; No more to Love we'll sacrifice, But to the best of deities; And let our hearts, which Love disjoin'd, By his kind mother be combin'd.

'Cold youth ': Adonis.