Ah! why should Isis only see thee shine? Is not thy Forth, as well as Isis, thine? Though Isis vaunt she hath more wealth in store, Let it suffice thy Forth doth love thee more: Though she for beauty may compare with Seine, For swans, and sea-nymphs with imperial Rhine, Yet for the title may be claim'd in thee, Nor she nor all the world can match with me. Now when, by honour drawn, them shalt away To her, already jealous of thy stay, When in her amorous arms she doth thee fold, And dries thy dewy hairs with hers of gold, Much asking of thy fare, much of thy sport, Much of thine absence, long, howe'er so short, And chides, perhaps, thy coming to the north, Loathe not to think on thy much-loving Forth: Oh, love these bounds, where of thy royal stem More than an hundred wore a diadem. So ever gold and bays thy brows adorn, So never time may see thy race outworn, So of thine own still mayst thou be desired, Of strangers fear'd, redoubted, and admired; So Memory thee praise, so precious hours May character thy name in starry flowers; So may thy high exploits at last make even, With earth thy empire, glory with the heaven. SONNETS. I. I know that all beneath the moon decays, And what by mortals in this world is brought, In Time's great periods shall return to nought; That fairest states have fatal nights and days; I know that all the Muse's heavenly lays, With toil of sp'rit, which are so dearly bought, As idle sounds, of few, or none, are sought, That there is nothing lighter than vain praise; I know frail beauty like the purple flower, To which one morn oft birth and death affords, That love a jarring is of minds' accords, Where sense and will envassal Reason's power; Know what I list, all this can not me move, But that, alas! I both must write and love. II. Ah me! and I am now the man whose muse In happier times was wont to laugh at love, And those who suffer'd that blind boy abuse The noble gifts were given them from above. What metamorphose strange is this I prove I Myself now scarce I find myself to be, And think no fable Circe's tyranny, And all the tales are told of changed Jove; Virtue hath taught with her philosophy My mind into a better course to move: Reason may chide her fill, and oft reprove Affection's power, but what is that to me? Who ever think, and never think on ought But that bright cherubim which thralls my thought. III.