html.skin-theme-clientpref-night @media(prefers-color-scheme:dark){html.skin-theme-clientpref-os }I sing these Numbers in the shady Land,
Where Ayrie Princes dwell; which I command
Some Spirit, or some Winde, gently convey
To you, whose breath is Spring, whose Eie-beames Day!
'Gainst your arrivall here, which must be late;
(Such pow'r the pray'rs of Mortalls have with Fate)
Fields I have dress'd, so rich in scent, and show;
As if your influence taught our Flow'rs to grow:
Where still delighted you shall nobly move;
Not like a sad Shadow, as they above
With learned falshood most unkindly dreame
Of ev'ry Ghost; but like a beautious Beame.
The Lilly, and the Rose; which Lovers seeke,
Not on their stalks, but on their Ladies Cheeke;
Shall here not dare take root; nor yet the strange
And various Tulip; which so oft doth change
Her am'rous Colours to a diff'rent hew,
That yearly Men beleeve the Species New.
In stead of these; on ev'ry Bank I'le shew
(Blith on his stemme) the nice Adonis grow;
Who though, in's beauties warm'th belov'd of old;
His transmutation only makes him cold;
For the amazed Goddesse now perceives,
Him scarce so faire in's Flesh, as in his Leaves.
Then proud Narcissus; whose rare beauty had
Farre lesse excuse, and cause, to make him mad,
When in his owne Eyes, flourishing alive;
Than since he was become a Vegative.
With these, the jealous Crocus, and the chaste
Anemone, whose blushes ever last.
Now for a cooling Shade, what use have wee
Of the delightfull Lydian-Platan-Tree,
Which Xerxes so much lov'd, or of the Lime,
Or the tall Pine, which spreads, as it doth climbe?
Or Lovers Sicamore, or mine owne Bay?
On which, since my Euridices sad day,
My Harp hath silent hung: No Trees your Bowre
Shall need; the slender stalke of ev'ry Flow'r,
When you arrive among us, and dispence
The lib'rall comfort of your influence,
Shall reach at Body, Rinde, and Boughs; then grow
Till't yeeld a Shade, as well as Scent, and Show,
For your Attendants here; Tomiris, she
That taught her tender sex, the wayes to victorie;
The Queene of Ithaca, whose precious name
For chaste desires, is decre to us, and Fame;
And Artimesia whom Truths best Record,
Declar'd a living Tomb unto her Lord,
Shall ever wait upon your sway; and when
The Destinies are so much vex'd with Men,
That the just God-like Monarch of your brest,
Is ripe, and fit to take eternall rest;
To court his spirit here, I will not call
The testy Pyrrhus, or malicious Hanibal;
Nor yet the fiery Youth of Macedon,
Shall have the dignitie t'attend his Throne:
But mighty Iulius, who had thoughts so high
They humble seem'd, when th'aim'd at victorie;
And own'd a Soule so learn'd; Truth fear'd that shee
Might stand too nak'd, neere his Philosophie:
In anger, valiant, gently calme, in love;
He soar'd an Eagle, but he stoop'd a Dove!
Know, Queene of light; hee onely doth appeare,
Fit to embrace your Royall Lover here:
Nor thinke my promise is the ayrie boast
Of a dead Greeke, a thinne-light-talking-Ghost:
It shall be well perform'd; and all I dare
For those just toyles commend unto your care;
Is but a Poets humble suit; who now
With everlasting Wreaths may deck his Brow;
Since first your Poet call'd; and by that stile
He is my Deputy throughout your Isle.