O thou self-little Blindness! The kindness of unkindness, Yet one of those Divine: Thy Brands to me were lever, Thy Fascia, and thy Quiver, And thou this Quill of mine. This heart so freshly bleeding, Upon its own self feeding; Whose wounds still dropping be: O Love, thyself confounding, Her coldness so abounding, And yet such heat in me. Yet, if I be inspirèd, I'll leave thee so admirèd To all that shall succeed; That were they more than many, 'Mongst all there is not any That Time so oft shall read. Nor adamant ingravèd, That hath been choicely savèd, IDEA'S name outwears: So large a dower as this is; The greatest often misses, The diadem that bears. ODE 3. [_TO CUPID._] [Illustration] Maidens, why spare ye? Or whether not dare ye Correct the blind Shooter?' "Because wanton VENUS, So oft that doth pain us, Is her son's tutor. "Now in the Spring, He proveth his wing; The field is his Bower: And as the small bee, About flyeth he, From flower to flower. "And wantonly roves Abroad in the groves, And in the air hovers; Which when it him deweth, His feathers he meweth In sighs of true Lovers. "And since doomed by Fate (That well knew his hate) That he should be blind; For very despite, Our eyes be his White: So wayward his kind! "If his shafts losing (Ill his mark choosing) Or his bow broken; The moan VENUS maketh, And care that she taketh, Cannot be spoken. "To VULCAN commending Her love; and straight sending Her doves and her sparrows, With kisses, unto him: And all but to woo him To make her son arrows. "Telling what he hath done; Saith she,'Right mine own son!' In her arms she him closes. Sweets on him fans, Laid in down of her swans; His sheets, leaves of roses. "And feeds him with kisses; Which oft when he misses, He ever is froward. The mother's o'erjoying Makes, by much coying, The child so untoward." _Yet in a fine net, That a spider set, The Maidens had caught him. Had she not been near him, And chancèd to hear him; More good they had taught him!_ _To my worthy friend Master JOHN SAVAGE of the Inner Temple._ ODE 4. [Illustration] Upon this sinful earth, If Man can happy be, And higher than his birth, Friend, take him thus of me: Whom promise not deceives, That he the breach should rue; Nor constant reason leaves Opinion to pursue. To raise his mean estate, That soothes no Wanton's sin: Doth that preferment hate, That virtue doth not win Nor bravery doth admire: Nor doth more love profess To that he doth desire, Than that he doth possess.