Poetry Archives

Ah Lucasta, why so bright?
Spread with early streaked light!
If still vailed from our sight,
What is’t but eternall night?

Ah Lucasta, why so chaste?
With that vigour, ripenes grac’t,
Not to be by Man imbrac’t
Makes that Royall coyne imbace’t,
And this golden Orchard waste!

Ah Lucasta, why so great,
That thy crammed coffers sweat?
Yet not owner of a seat
May shelter you from Natures heat,
And your earthly joyes compleat.

Ah Lucasta, why so good?
Blest with an unstained flood
Flowing both through soule and blood;
If it be not understood,
’Tis a Diamond in mud.

Lucasta! stay! why dost thou flye?
Thou art not bright but to the eye,
Nor chaste but in the mariage-tye,
Nor great but in this treasurie,
Nor good but in that sanctitie.

Harder then the Orient stone,
Like an apparition,
Or as a pale shadow gone,
Dumbe and deafe she hence is flowne.

Then receive this equall dombe:
Virgins, strow no teare or bloome,
No one dig the Parian wombe;
Raise her marble heart i’th’ roome,
And ’tis both her coarse and tombe.