Tempt me no more with rosy cheeks, Nor daze my reason with bright eyes; I'm wearied with thy painted freaks, And sicken at such vanities: Be roses fine as eer they will, They, with the meanest, fade and die, And eyes, though thronged with darts to kill, Share like mortality. Feed the young bard, that madly sips His nectar-draughts from folly's flowers, Bright eyes, fair cheeks, and ruby lips, Till muses melt to honey showers; Lure him to thrum thy empty lays, While flattery listens to the chimes, Till words themselves grow sick with praise And stop for want of rhymes. Let such be still thy paramours, And chaunt love's old and idle tune, Robbing the spring of all its flowers, And heaven of all her stars and moon, To gild with dazzling similes Blind folly's vain and empty lay: I'm sobered from such phantasies, So get thee hence away. Nor bid me sigh for mine own cost, Nor count its loss, for mine annoy, Nor say my stubbornness hath lost A paradise of dainty joy: I'll not believe thee, till I know That sober reason turns an ape, And acts the harlequin, to show That cares in every shape, Heart-achings, sighs, and grief-wrung tears, Shame-blushes at betrayed distress, Dissembled smiles, and jealous fears, Are nought but real happiness: Then will I mourn what now I brave, And suffer Celia's quirks to be (Like a poor fate-bewilder'd slave,) The rulers of my destiny. I'll weep and sigh wheneer she wills To frown, and when she deigns to smile It shall be cure for all my ills, And, foolish still, I'll laugh the while; But till that comes, I'll bless the rules Experience taught, and deem it wise To hold thee as the game of fools, And all thy tricks despise. _To John Milton_ _"From his honoured friend, William Davenant"_ Poet of mighty power, I fain Would court the muse that honoured thee, And, like Elisha's spirit, gain A part of thy intensity; And share the mantle which she flung Around thee, when thy lyre was strung. Though faction's scorn at first did shun With coldness thy inspired song, Though clouds of malice passed thy sun, They could not hide it long; Its brightness soon exhaled away Dank night, and gained eternal day. The critics' wrath did darkly frown Upon thy muse's mighty lay; But blasts that break the blossom down Do only stir the bay; And thine shall flourish, green and long, With the eternity of song. Thy genius saw, in quiet mood, Gilt fashion's follies pass thee by, And, like the monarch of the wood, Towered oer it to the sky, Where thou couldst sing of other spheres, And feel the fame of future years. Though bitter sneers and stinging scorns Did throng the muse's dangerous way, Thy powers were past such little thorns, They gave thee no dismay; The scoffer's insult passed thee by, Thou smild'st and mad'st him no reply.