Seest thou younder craggy Rock, Whose Head o'er-looks the swelling Main, Where never Shepherd fed his Flock, Or careful Peasant sow'd his Grain. No wholesome Herb grows on the same, Or Bird of Day will on it rest; 'Tis Barren as the Hopeless Flame, That scortches my tormented Breast. Deep underneath a Cave does lie, Th'entrance hid with dismal Yew, Where _Phebus_ never shew'd his Eye, Or cheerful Day yet pierced through. In that dark Melancholy Cell, (Retreate and Sollace to my Woe) Love, sad Dispair, and I, do dwell, The Springs from whence my Griefs do flow. Treacherous Love that did appear, (When he at first approach't my Heart) Drest in a Garb far from severe, Or threatning ought of future smart. So Innocent those Charms then seem'd, When _Rosalinda_ first I spy'd, Ah! Who would them have deadly deem'd? But Flowrs do often Serpents hide. Beneath those sweets conceal'd lay, To Love the cruel Foe, Disdain, With which (alas) she does repay My Constant and Deserving Pain. When I in Tears have spent the Night, With Sighs I usher in the Sun, Who never saw a sadder sight, In all the Courses he has run. Sleep, which to others Ease does prove, Comes unto me, alas, in vain: For in my Dreams I am in Love, And in them too she does Disdain. Some times t'Amuse my Sorrow, I Unto the hollow Rocks repair, And loudly to the _Eccho_ cry, Ah! gentle Nimph come ease my Care. Thou who, times past, a Lover wer't, Ah! pity me, who now am so, And by a sense of thine own smart, Alleviate my Mighty Woe. Come Flatter then, or Chide my Grief; Catch my last Words, and call me Fool; Or say, she Loves, for my Relief; My Passion either sooth, or School. Love, the Soul of Poetry. When first _Alexis_ did in Verse delight, His Muse in Low, but Graceful Numbers walk't, And now and then a little Proudly stalk't; But never aim'd at any noble Flight: The Herds, the Groves, the gentle purling Streams, Adorn'd his Song, and were his highest Theams. But Love these Thoughts, like Mists, did soon disperse, Enlarg'd his Fancy, and set free his Muse, Biding him more Illustrious Subjects choose; The Acts of Gods, and God-like Men reherse. From thence new Raptures did his Breast inspire, His scarce Warm-Heart converted was to Fire. Th' exalted Poet rais'd by this new Flame, With Vigor flys, where late he crept along, And Acts Divine, in a Diviner Song, Commits to the eternal Trompe of Fame. And thus _Alexis_ does prove Love to be, As the Worlds Soul, the Soul of Poetry. To my Lady Berkeley, Afflicted upon her Son, My Lord BERKELEY's Early Engaging in the Sea-Service.