Poetry Archives

Introth, I do my self perswade,
  That the wilde boy is grown a man,
And all his childishnesse off laid,
  E’re since Lucasta  did his fires fan;
      H’ has left his apish jigs,
      And whipping hearts like gigs:
  For t’ other day I heard him swear,
That beauty should be crown’d in honours chair.

With what a true and heavenly state
  He doth his glorious darts dispence,
Now cleans’d from falsehood, blood and hate,
  And newly tipt with innocence!
      Love Justice is become,
      And doth the cruel doome;
  Reversed is the old decree;
Behold! he sits inthron’d with majestie.

Inthroned in Lucasta’s eye,
  He doth our faith and hearts survey;
Then measures them by sympathy,
  And each to th’ others breast convey;
      Whilst to his altars now
      The frozen vestals bow,
  And strickt Diana too doth go
A-hunting with his fear’d, exchanged bow.

Th’ imbracing seas and ambient air
  Now in his holy fires burn;
Fish couple, birds and beasts in pair
  Do their own sacrifices turn.
      This is a miracle,
      That might religion swell;
  But she, that these and their god awes,
Her crowned self submits to her own laws.