LUCASTA (fair, but hapless maid!) Once flourisht underneath the shade Of your illustrious Mother; now, An orphan grown, she bows to you! To you, her vertues' noble heir; Oh may she find protection there! Nor let her welcome be the less, 'Cause a rough hand makes her address: One (to whom foes the Muses are) Born and bred up in rugged war: For, conscious how unfit I am, I only have pronounc'd her name To waken pity in your brest, And leave her tears to plead the rest. Sir, Your most obedient Servant and kinsman DUDLEY POSTHUMUS-LOVELACE. <64.1> This gentleman was the eldest son of John, second Lord Lovelace of Hurley, co. Berks, by Anne, daughter of Thomas, Earl of Cleveland. The first part of LUCASTA was inscribed by the poet himself to Lady Lovelace, his mother. POEMS. TO LVCASTA. HER RESERVED LOOKS. LUCASTA, frown, and let me die, But smile, and see, I live; The sad indifference of your eye Both kills and doth reprieve. You hide our fate within its screen; We feel our judgment, ere we hear. So in one picture I have seen An angel here, the devil there. LUCASTA LAUGHING. Heark, how she laughs aloud, Although the world put on its shrowd: Wept at by the fantastic crowd, Who cry: one drop, let fall From her, might save the universal ball. She laughs again At our ridiculous pain; And at our merry misery She laughs, until she cry. Sages, forbear That ill-contrived tear, Although your fear Doth barricado hope from your soft ear. That which still makes her mirth to flow, Is our sinister-handed woe, Which downwards on its head doth go, And, ere that it is sown, doth grow. This makes her spleen contract, And her just pleasure feast: For the unjustest act Is still the pleasant'st jest. NIGHT. TO LUCASTA. Night! loathed jaylor of the lock'd up sun, And tyrant-turnkey on committed day, Bright eyes lye fettered in thy dungeon, And Heaven it self doth thy dark wards obey. Thou dost arise our living hell; With thee grones, terrors, furies dwell; Until LUCASTA doth awake, And with her beams these heavy chaines off shake. Behold! with opening her almighty lid, Bright eyes break rowling, and with lustre spread, And captive day his chariot mounted is; Night to her proper hell is beat, And screwed to her ebon seat; Till th' Earth with play oppressed lies, And drawes again the curtains of her eyes. But, bondslave, I know neither day nor night; Whether she murth'ring sleep, or saving wake; Now broyl'd ith' zone of her reflected light, Then frose, my isicles, not sinews shake. Smile then, new Nature, your soft blast Doth melt our ice, and fires waste; Whil'st the scorch'd shiv'ring world new born Now feels it all the day one rising morn. LOVE INTHRON'D.