Should the cold _Muscovit_, whose furre and stove Can scarse prepare him heate enough for love, But view the wonder of your presence, he Would scorne his winters sharpest injury: And trace the naked groves, till he found bayse To write the beautious triumphs of your prayse. As a dull Poet even he would say, Th' unclouded Sun had never showne them day Till that bright minute; that he now admires No more why the coy Spring so soone retires From their unhappy clyme: It doth pursue The Sun, and he derives his light from you. Hee'd tell you how the fetter'd Baltick Sea Is set at freedome, while the yce away Doth melt at your approach; how by so faire Harmonious beauty, their rude manners are Reduc't to order; how to them you bring The wealthiest mines below, above the Spring. Thus would his wonder speake. For he would want Religion to beleeve, there were a Saint Within, and all he saw was but the shrine. But I here pay my vowes to the devine Pure essence there inclos'd, which if it were Not hid in a faire cloud but might appeare In its full lustre, would make Nature live In a state equall to her primitive. But sweetly thats obscur'd. Yet though our eye Cannot the splendor of your soule descry In true perfection, by a glimmering light, Your language yeelds us, we can guesse how bright The Sunne within you shines, and curse th' unkind Eclipse, or else our selves for being blinde. How hastily doth Nature build up man To leave him so imperfect? For he can See nought beyond his sence; she doth controule So farre his sight, he nere discern'd a soule. For had yours beene the object of his eye; It had turn'd wonder to Idolatry. [32] _To the Right Honourable, my very good Lady, the Countesse of_ C. 1635. _The harmony of Love._ _Amphion_, O thou holy shade! Bring _Orpheus_ up with thee: That wonder may you both invade, Hearing Loves harmony. You who are soule, not rudely made Up, with Materiall eares, And fit to reach the musique of these spheares. Harke! when _Castara's_ orbs doe move By my first moving eyes, How great the Symphony of Love, But 'tis the destinies Will not so farre my prayer approve, To bring you hither, here Lest you meete heaven, for Elizium there. Tis no dull Sublunary flame Burnes in her heart and mine. But something more, then hath a name. So subtle and divine, We know not why, nor how it came. Which shall shine bright, till she And the whole world of love, expire with me. _To my honoured friend Sir_ ED. P. _Knight_.