'Tis true, I am undone: yet, ere I die, I'll leave these sighs and tears a legacy To after-lovers: that, rememb'ring me, Those sickly flames which now benighted be, Fann'd by their warmer sighs, may love; and prove In them the metempsychosis of love. 'Twas I--when others scorn'd--vow'd you were fair, And sware that breath enrich'd the coarser air, Lent roses to your cheeks, made Flora bring Her nymphs with all the glories of the spring To wait upon thy face, and gave my heart A pledge to Cupid for a quicker dart, To arm those eyes against myself; to me Thou ow'st that tongue's bewitching harmony. I courted angels from those upper joys, And made them leave their spheres to hear thy voice. I made the Indian curse the hours he spent To seek his pearls, and wisely to repent His former folly, and confess a sin, Charm'd by the brighter lustre of thy skin. I borrow'd from the winds the gentler wing Of Zephyrus, and soft souls of the spring; And made--to air those cheeks with fresher grace-- The warm inspirers dwell upon thy face. _Oh! jam satis_ ... A RHAPSODIS: _Occasionally written upon a meeting with some of his friends at the Globe Tavern, in a chamber painted overhead with a cloudy sky and some few dispersed stars, and on the sides with landscapes, hills, shepherds and sheep._ Darkness, and stars i' th' mid-day! They invite Our active fancies to believe it night: For taverns need no sun, but for a sign, Where rich tobacco and quick tapers shine; And royal, witty sack, the poet's soul, With brighter suns than he doth gild the bowl; As though the pot and poet did agree, Sack should to both illuminator be. That artificial cloud, with its curl'd brow, Tells us 'tis late; and that blue space below Is fir'd with many stars: mark! how they break In silent glances o'er the hills, and speak The evening to the plains, where, shot from far, They meet in dumb salutes, as one great star. The room, methinks, grows darker; and the air Contracts a sadder colour, and less fair. Or is't the drawer's skill? hath he no arts To blind us so we can't know pints from quarts? No, no, 'tis night: look where the jolly clown Musters his bleating herd and quits the down. Hark! how his rude pipe frets the quiet air, Whilst ev'ry hill proclaims Lycoris fair. Rich, happy man! that canst thus watch and sleep, Free from all cares, but thy wench, pipe and sheep! But see, the moon is up; view, where she stands Sentinel o'er the door, drawn by the hands Of some base painter, that for gain hath made Her face the landmark to the tippling trade. This cup to her, that to Endymion give; 'Twas wit at first, and wine that made them live. Choke may the painter! and his box disclose No other colours than his fiery nose;