BEN JONSON.

Dear Lady! oft I meditate on thee, Noblest companion and fit peer of him Whom envious years, in high prosperity, Could blemish least, nor aught the lustre dim Of that fair-fashioned native piety Embosomed in the soul that smiles on Fate, And held by him and thee inviolate,— Fountain of youth, still sparkling o’er the brim. Then I recall thy salient quick wit, Its arrowy quiver and its supple bow,— Huntress of wrong! right well thy arrows hit, Though from the wound thou see’st the red drops flow: I much admire that dexterous archery, And pray that sinners may thy target be.