Or, by the merit of this pain, Thou shalt the crown of martyrs gain! Those hopes are, as thy passion, vain. For when, by death, from these flames free, To greater thou condemn'd shalt be, And punish'd for idolatry, Since thou (Love's votary before 10 Whilst He was kind) dost him no more, But, in his shrine, Disdain adore. Nor will this fire (the gods prepare To punish scorn) that cruel Fair, (Though now from flames exempted) spare; But as together both shall die, Both burnt alike in flames shall lie, She in thy breast, thou in her eye. [_The Idolater._] ] [Line: 11 'He' altered in _1656_ to 'she', which Miss Guiney adopts. But of course 'He' is Love.] [Line: 18 breast _1647_: later, much worse, 'heart'.] _The Magnet._ Ask the empress of the night How the Hand which guides her sphere, Constant in unconstant light, Taught the waves her yoke to bear, And did thus by loving force Curb or tame the rude sea's course. Ask the female palm how she First did woo her husband's love; And the magnet, ask how he Doth th' obsequious iron move; 10 Waters, plants, and stones know this: That they love; not what Love is. Be not then less kind than these, Or from Love exempt alone! Let us twine like amorous trees, And like rivers melt in one. Or, if thou more cruel prove, Learn of steel and stones to love. [_The Magnet._] ] [Line: 9 'he' _1647_, altered to 'she' in _1656_. One would expect 'he' to avoid identical rhyme, but Stanley was a scholar and the Greek is [Greek: hê Magnêtis lithos], and the other things to be 'asked' are feminine.] [In l. 13 'then' became 'thou', neither for better nor for worse.] _On a Violet in her Breast._ See how this violet, which before Hung sullenly her drooping head, As angry at the ground that bore The purple treasure which she spread, Doth smilingly erected grow, Transplanted to those hills of snow. And whilst the pillows of thy breast Do her reclining head sustain, She swells with pride to be so blest, And doth all other flowers disdain; 10 Yet weeps that dew which kissed her last, To see her odours so surpass'd. Poor flower! how far deceiv'd thou wert, To think the riches of the morn, Or all the sweets she can impart, Could these or sweeten or adorn, Since thou from them dost borrow scent, And they to thee lend ornament! [_On a Violet in her Breast._]