When, Cœlia, must my old day set, And my young morning rise In beams of joy so bright as yet Ne’er bless’d a lover’s eyes? My state is more advanced than when I first attempted thee: I sued to be a servant then, But now to be made free. I’ve served my time faithful and true, Expecting to be placed In happy freedom, as my due, To all the joys thou hast: Ill husbandry in love is such A scandal to love’s power, We ought not to misspend so much As one poor short-lived hour. Yet think not, sweet, I’m weary grown. That I pretend such haste; Since none to surfeit e’er was known Before he had a taste: My infant love could humbly wait When, young, it scarce knew how To plead; but grown to man’s estate, He is impatient now. KATHERINE PHILIPS (‘ORINDA’) 1631-1664 _397._ _To One persuading a Lady to Marriage_ Forbear, bold youth; all’s heaven here, And what you do aver To others courtship may appear, ’Tis sacrilege to her. She is a public deity; And were’t not very odd She should dispose herself to be A petty household god? First make the sun in private shine And bid the world adieu, That so he may his beams confine In compliment to you: But if of that you do despair, Think how you did amiss To strive to fix her beams which are More bright and large than his. JOHN DRYDEN 1631-1700 _398._ _Ode_ _To the Pious Memory of the accomplished young lady, Mrs. Anne Killigrew, excellent in the two sister arts of Poesy and Painting_ Thou youngest virgin-daughter of the skies, Made in the last promotion of the blest; Whose palms, new pluck’d from Paradise, In spreading branches more sublimely rise, Rich with immortal green above the rest: Whether, adopted to some neighbouring star, Thou roll’st above us, in thy wandering race, Or, in procession fixt and regular, Mov’d with the heaven’s majestic pace; Or, called to more superior bliss, Thou tread’st with seraphims the vast abyss: Whatever happy region is thy place, Cease thy celestial song a little space; Thou wilt have time enough for hymns divine, Since Heaven’s eternal year is thine. Hear, then, a mortal Muse thy praise rehearse, In no ignoble verse; But such as thy own voice did practise here, When thy first-fruits of Poesy were given, To make thyself a welcome inmate there; While yet a young probationer, And candidate of heaven.