Bright goddesse (whether Joue thy father be, Or Jove a father will be made by thee) Oh crowne these praiers (mov'd in a happy bower) But with one cordiall smile for Cloe. That power Of Loue's all-daring hand, that makes me burne, Makes me confess't. Oh, doe not thou with scorne, Great nymph, o'relooke my lownesse. Heau'n you know And all their fellow-deities will bow Eu'n to the naked'st vowes. Thou art my fate; To thee the Parcæ haue given vp of late My threds of life: if then I shall not live By thee, by thee yet lett me die; this giue, High Beautie's soveraigne, that my funerall flames May draw their first breath from thy starry beames. The phoenix' selfe shall not more proudly burne, That fetcheth fresh life from her fruitfull vrne. AN ELEGY VPON THE DEATH OF MR. STANNINOW, FELLOW OF QUEENE'S COLLEDGE.[92] Hath aged winter, fledg'd with feathered raine, To frozen Caucasus his flight now tane? Doth hee in downy snow there closely shrowd His bedrid limmes, wrapt in a fleecy clowd? Is th' Earth disrobèd of her apron white, Kind Winter's guift, & in a greene one dight? Doth she beginne to dandle in her lappe Her painted infants, fedd with pleasant pappe, Wch their bright father in a pretious showre From heaven's sweet milky streame doth gently poure Doth blith Apollo cloath the heavens with joye, And with a golden waue wash cleane away Those durty smutches, wch their faire fronts wore, And make them laugh, wch frown'd, & wept before? If heaven hath now forgot to weepe; ô then What meane these shoures of teares amongst vs men? These cataracts of griefe, that dare eu'n vie With th' richest clowds their pearly treasurie? If Winters gone, whence this vntimely cold, That on these snowy limmes hath laid such hold? What more than winter hath that dire art found, These purple currents hedg'd with violets round. To corrallize, wch softly wont to slide In crimson waueletts, & in scarlet tide? If Flora's darlings now awake from sleepe, And out of their greene mantletts dare to peepe O tell me then, what rude outragious blast Forc't this prime flowre of youth to make such hast? To hide his blooming glories, & bequeath His balmy treasure to the bedd of death? 'Twas not the frozen zone; one sparke of fire, Shott from his flaming eye, had thaw'd its ire, And made it burne in loue: 'twas not the rage, And too vngentle nippe of frosty age: 'Twas not the chast, & purer snow, whose nest Was in the modest nunnery of his brest: Noe, none of these ravish't those virgin roses, The Muses, & the Graces fragrant posies. Wch, while they smiling sate vpon his face, They often kist, & in the sugred place Left many a starry teare, to thinke how soone The golden harvest of our joyes, the noone Of all our glorious hopes should fade,