The God! and thrice new vigor took. Nor had the Mysterie ended there, But _Cloris_ reassum’d her fear, And chid the Swain, for having prest, What she alas wou’d not resist: Whilst he in whom Loves sacred flame, Before and after was the same, Fondly implor’d she wou’d forget A fault, which he wou’d yet repeat. From Active Joyes with some they hast, To a Reflexion on the past; A thousand times my Covert bless, That did secure their Happiness: Their Gratitude to every Tree They pay, but most to happy me; The Shepherdess my Bark carest, Whilst he my Root, Love’s Pillow, kist; And did with sighs, their fate deplore, Since I must shelter them no more; And if before my Joyes were such, In having heard, and seen too much, My Grief must be as great and high, } When all abandon’d I shall be, } Doom’d to a silent Destinie. } No more the Charming strife to hear, The Shepherds Vows, the Virgins fear: No more a joyful looker on, Whilst Loves soft Battel’s lost and won. With grief I bow’d my murmering Head, And all my Christal Dew I shed. Which did in _Cloris_ Pity move, (_Cloris_ whose Soul is made of Love;) She cut me down, and did translate, My being to a happier state. No Martyr for Religion di’d With half that Unconsidering Pride; My top was on that Altar laid. Where Love his softest Offerings paid: And was as fragrant Incense burn’d, My body into Busks was turn’d: Where I still guard the Sacred Store, And of Loves Temple keep the Door. On _the_ Death _of Mr._ Grinhil, _the Famous Painter._ I. What doleful crys are these that fright my sence, Sad as the Groans of dying Innocence? The killing Accents now more near Aproach, And the Infectious Sound, Spreads and Inlarges all around; And does all Hearts with Grief and Wonder touch. The famous _Grinhil_ dead! even he, That cou’d to us give Immortalitie; Is to the Eternal silent Groves withdrawn, Those sullen Groves of Everlasting Dawn; Youthful as Flowers, scarce blown, whose opening Leaves, A wond’rous and a fragrant Prospect gives, Of what it’s Elder Beauties wou’d display, When they should flourish up to ripning _May_. Witty as _Poets_, warm’d with Love and Wine, Yet still spar’d Heaven and his Friend, For both to him were Sacred and Divine: Nor could he this no more then that offend. Fixt as a _Martyr_ where he friendship paid, And Generous as a God, Distributing his Bounties all abroad; And soft and gentle as a Love-sick Maid. II.