To My Lord Of Leicester.[1]

1 Not that thy trees at Penshurst groan, Oppressed with their timely load, And seem to make their silent moan, That their great lord is now abroad: They to delight his taste, or eye, Would spend themselves in fruit, and die.

2 Not that thy harmless deer repine, And think themselves unjustly slain By any other hand than thine, Whose arrows they would gladly stain; No, nor thy friends, which hold too dear That peace with France which keeps thee there.

3 All these are less than that great cause Which now exacts your presence here, Wherein there meet the divers laws Of public and domestic care. For one bright nymph our youth contends, And on your prudent choice depends.

4 Not the bright shield of Thetis' son (For which such stern debate did rise, That the great Ajax Telamon Refused to live without the prize), Those Achive peers did more engage Than she the gallants of our age.

5 That beam of beauty, which begun To warm us so when thou wert here, Now scorches like the raging sun, When Sirius does first appear. Oh, fix this flame! and let despair Redeem the rest from endless care.

'Lord of Leicester': Saccharissa's father. He was employed at this time in foreign service. 'Thetis' son': Achilles.

TO MRS BRAUGHTON, SERVANT TO SACCHARISSA.

Fair fellow-servant! may your gentle ear Prove more propitious to my slighted care Than the bright dame's we serve: for her relief (Vex'd with the long expressions of my grief) Receive these plaints; nor will her high disdain Forbid my humble Muse to court her train.

So, in those nations which the sun adore, Some modest Persian, or some weak-eyed Moor, No higher dares advance his dazzled sight, Than to some gilded cloud, which near the light Of their ascending god adorns the east, And, gracèd with his beams, outshines the rest.

Thy skilful hand contributes to our woe, And whets those arrows which confound us so. A thousand Cupids in those curls do sit (Those curious nets!) thy slender fingers knit. The Graces put not more exactly on Th' attire of Venus, when the ball she won, Than Saccharissa by thy care is dress'd, When all our youth prefers her to the rest.

You the soft season know when best her mind May be to pity, or to love, inclined: In some well-chosen hour supply his fear, Whose hopeless love durst never tempt the ear Of that stern goddess. You, her priest, declare What offerings may propitiate the fair; Rich orient pearl, bright stones that ne'er decay, Or polish'd lines, which longer last than they; For if I thought she took delight in those, To where the cheerful morn does first disclose, (The shady night removing with her beams), Wing'd with bold love, I'd fly to fetch such gems. But since her eyes, her teeth, her lip excels All that is found in mines or fishes' shells, Her nobler part as far exceeding these, None but immortal gifts her mind should please. The shining jewels Greece and Troy bestow'd On Sparta's queen, her lovely neck did load, And snowy wrists; but when the town was burn'd, Those fading glories were to ashes turn'd; Her beauty, too, had perished, and her fame, Had not the Muse redeemed them from the flame.

'Sparta's queen': Helen.