WILLIAM CARTWRIGHT.

TO MR. W. B.

AT THE BIRTH OF HIS FIRST CHILD.

Y'ARE now transcrib'd, and publike view
Perusing finds the copy true,
Without erratas new crept in,
Fully compleat and genuine :
And nothing wanting can espy,
But only bulk and quantity:
The text in letters small we see,
And the arts in one epitome.
O what pleasure do you take
To hear the nurse discovery make,
How the nose, the lip, the eye,
The forehead full of majesty,
Shews the father? how to this
The mother's beauty added is :
And after all with gentle numbers
To wooe the infant into slumbers.

And these delights he yields you now,
The swath, and cradle, this doth show:

But hereafter when his force

Shall wield the rattle and the horse!
When his ventring tongue shall speak
All synalæphaes*, and shall break
This word short off, and make that two,
Pratling as obligations do:

"Twill ravish the delighted sense

To view these sports of innocence,
And make the wisest dote upon
Such pretty imperfection.

These hopeful cradles promise such Future goodness, and so much,

That they prevent my prayers, and I
Must wish but for formality.

I wish religion timely be
Taught him with his A B C.

I wish him good and constant health,
His father's learning, but more wealth;
And that to use, not hoard; a purse
Open to bless, not shut to curse.
May he have many, and fast friends,
Meaning good will, not private ends,
Such as scorn to understand,

When they name love, a peece of land.
May the swath and whistle be
The hardest of his bonds. May he
Have no sad cares to break his sleep,
Nor other cause, than now, to weep.
May he ne'er live to be again,
What he is is now, a child; may pain,
If it do visit as a guest,

Only call in, not dare to rest.

A collision of a vowel left out in scanning.

LOVE'S DARTS.

WHERE is that learned wretch that knows What are those darts the veyl'd god throws: O let him tell me ere I dye

When 'twas he saw or heard them fly;

Whether the sparrow's plumes, or dove's,
Wing them for various loves;
And whether gold, or lead,
Quicken, or dull the head:

I will annoint and keep them warm,
And make the weapons heale the harm.

Fond that I am to aske! who ere
Did yet see thought? or silence hear?
Safe from the search of humane eye
These arrows (as their waies are) flie:
The flights of angels part

Not aire with so much art;

And snows on streams, we may
Say, louder fall than they.

So hopeless I must now endure,
And neither know the shaft nor cure.

A sudden fire of blushes shed
To dye white paths with hasty red;
A glance's lightning swiftly thrown,
Or from a true or seeming frown;
A subt'le taking smile
From passion, or from guile;
The spirit, life, and grace

Of motion, limbs, and face;

These misconceits entitles darts,
And tears the bleeding of our hearts.

But as the feathers in the wing,
Unblemish'd are and no wounds bring,
And harmless twigs no bloodshed know,
Till art doth fit them for the bow;
So lights of flowing graces
Sparkling in severall places,
Only adorn the parts,

Till we that make them darts;
Themselves are only twigs and quills:
We give them shape, and force for ills.
Beautie's our grief, but in the ore,
We mint, and stamp, and then adore;
Like heathen we the image crown,
And undiscreetly then fall down:
Those graces all were meant
Our joy, not discontent;
But with untaught desires

We turn those lights to fires.
Thus Nature's healing herbs we take,
And out of cures do poysons make.

TO THE MEMORY OF THE MOST VERTUOUS
MRS. URSULA SADLEIR.

WHO DYED OF A FEVER.

THOU whitest soul, thou thine own day,
Not sully'd by the bodie's clay,

Fly to thy native seat,
Surrounded with this heat,

Make thy disease which would destroy thee
Thy chariot only to conveigh thee;

And while thou soar'st and leav'st us here beneath,

Wee'l think it thy translation, not thy death.