My lyre I tune, my voice I raise; But with my numbers mix my sighs: And while I sing Euphelia’s praise, I fix my soul on Chloe’s eyes. Fair Chloe blush’d: Euphelia frown’d: I sung, and gazed: I play’d, and trembled: And Venus to the Loves around Remark’d, how ill we all dissembled. _425._ _On My Birthday, July 21_ I, my dear, was born to-day-- So all my jolly comrades say: They bring me music, wreaths, and mirth, And ask to celebrate my birth: Little, alas! my comrades know That I was born to pain and woe; To thy denial, to thy scorn, Better I had ne’er been born: I wish to die, even whilst I say-- ‘I, my dear, was born to-day.’ I, my dear, was born to-day: Shall I salute the rising ray, Well-spring of all my joy and woe? Clotilda, thou alone dost know. Shall the wreath surround my hair? Or shall the music please my ear? Shall I my comrades’ mirth receive, And bless my birth, and wish to live? Then let me see great Venus chase Imperious anger from thy face; Then let me hear thee smiling say-- ‘Thou, my dear, wert born to-day.’ _426._ _The Lady who offers her Looking-Glass to Venus_ Venus, take my votive glass: Since I am not what I was, What from this day I shall be, Venus, let me never see. _427._ _A Letter_ _to Lady Margaret Cavendish Holles-Harley, when a Child_ My noble, lovely, little Peggy, Let this my First Epistle beg ye, At dawn of morn, and close of even, To lift your heart and hands to Heaven. In double duty say your prayer: _Our Father_ first, then _Notre Père_. And, dearest child, along the day, In every thing you do and say, Obey and please my lord and lady, So God shall love and angels aid ye. If to these precepts you attend, No second letter need I send, And so I rest your constant friend. _428._ _For my own Monument_ As doctors give physic by way of prevention, Mat, alive and in health, of his tombstone took care; For delays are unsafe, and his pious intention May haply be never fulfill’d by his heir. Then take Mat’s word for it, the sculptor is paid; That the figure is fine, pray believe your own eye; Yet credit but lightly what more may be said, For we flatter ourselves, and teach marble to lie. Yet counting as far as to fifty his years, His virtues and vices were as other men’s are; High hopes he conceived, and he smother’d great fears, In a life parti-colour’d, half pleasure, half care. Nor to business a drudge, nor to faction a slave, He strove to make interest and freedom agree; In public employments industrious and grave, And alone with his friends, Lord! how merry was he!