With a Looking glasse in it.
EASTRICH ! Thou featherd Foole, and easie prey,
That larger sailes to thy broad Vessell needst ;
Snakes through thy guttur-neck hisse all the day,
Then on thy I'ron Messe at supper feedst.
Oh what a glorious transmigration
From this, to so divine an edifice
Hast thou straight made ! neere from a winged stone
Transform'd into a Bird of Paradice!
Now doe thy Plumes for hiew and Luster vie
With th' Arch of heav'n that triumphs or'e past wet,
And in a rich enamel'd pinion lye
With Saphyres, Amethists, and Opalls set.
Sometime they wing her side, then strive to drown
The Day's eyes piercing beames, whose am'rous heat
Sollicites still, 'till with this shield of down
From her brave face, his glowing fires are beat.
But whilst a plumy curtaine she doth draw,
A Chrystall Mirror sparkles in thy breast,
In which her fresh aspect when as she saw,
And then her Foe retired to the West.
Deare Engine that oth' Sun got'st me the day
'Spite of his hot assaults mad'st him retreat !
No wind (said she) dare with thee henceforth play
But mine own breath to coole the Tyrants heat.
My lively shade thou ever shalt retaine
In thy inclosed feather-framed glasse,
And but unto our selves to all remaine
Invisible thou feature of this face !
So said, her sad Swaine over-heard, and cried
Yee Gods ! for faith unstaind this a reward !
Feathers and glasse t'outweigh my vertue tryed ?
Ah show their empty strength ! the Gods accord.
Now fall'n the brittle Favourite lyes, and burst !
Amas'd Lucasta weepes, repents, and flies
To her Alexis, vowes her selfe acurst
If hence she dresse her selfe, but in his eyes.
Lovelace, Richard. The Poems of Richard Lovelace.
London: Unit Library, Ltd., 1904. 46-48.
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