ODE. I. Introth, I do my self perswade, That the wilde boy is grown a man, And all his childishnesse off laid, E're since LUCASTA did his fires fan; H' has left his apish jigs, And whipping hearts like gigs: For t' other day I heard him swear, That beauty should be crown'd in honours chair. II. With what a true and heavenly state He doth his glorious darts dispence, Now cleans'd from falsehood, blood and hate, And newly tipt with innocence! Love Justice is become, And doth the cruel doome; Reversed is the old decree; Behold! he sits inthron'd with majestie. III. Inthroned in LUCASTA'S eye, He doth our faith and hearts survey; Then measures them by sympathy, And each to th' others breast convey; Whilst to his altars now The frozen vestals bow, And strickt Diana too doth go A-hunting with his fear'd, exchanged bow. IV. Th' imbracing seas and ambient air Now in his holy fires burn; Fish couple, birds and beasts in pair Do their own sacrifices turn. This is a miracle, That might religion swell; But she, that these and their god awes, Her crowned self submits to her own laws. HER MUFFE. I. Twas not for some calm blessing to deceive, Thou didst thy polish'd hands in shagg'd furs weave; It were no blessing thus obtain'd; Thou rather would'st a curse have gain'd, Then let thy warm driven snow be ever stain'd. II. Not that you feared the discolo'ring cold Might alchymize their silver into gold; Nor could your ten white nuns so sin, That you should thus pennance them in, Each in her coarse hair smock of discipline. III. Nor, Hero-like who, on their crest still wore A lyon, panther, leopard, or a bore, To looke their enemies in their herse, Thou would'st thy hand should deeper pierce, And, in its softness rough, appear more fierce. IV. No, no, LUCASTA, destiny decreed, That beasts to thee a sacrifice should bleed, And strip themselves to make you gay: For ne'r yet herald did display A coat, where SABLES upon ERMIN lay. V. This for lay-lovers, that must stand at dore, Salute the threshold, and admire no more; But I, in my invention tough, Rate not this outward bliss enough, But still contemplate must the hidden muffe. A BLACK PATCH<65.1> ON LUCASTA'S FACE.