THE QVEENE, returning to London after a long absence.
How had you walk'd in Mists of Sea-coale-smoake, Such as your ever teeming Wives would choak, (False Sonnes of thrift!) did not her beauties light Dispell your Clouds, and quicken your dull sight? As when, th'illustrious Officer of Day, (First worship'd in the East) 'gins to display The glory of his beames; then Buds unfold Their chary Leafes; each dew-drownd Marigold Insensibly doth stirre it selfe, and spread; Each Violet lifts up, the pensive Head; So when the Rayes of her faire Eyes appeare, To warme, and gild your clouded Hemispheare; Those Flow'rs which in your narrow Gardens grow, (Narrow as Turfs, which you a Lark allow In's wicker Cage) rejoyce upon their stalks; Imbellishing your sommer inch-broad walks: But she remov'd, what all your weary'd lives, You plant in German pots, to please your Wives, Shall fade; scarce in your Climate shall be seene Enough of Spring to make your Tansies green. Nor shall your blew-Ey'd-Daughters more appeare (Though in the hopefull'st season of the Yeare) In the dark street, where Tantlin's Temple stands, With Time, and Marg'rom Posies in their hands. Wee know (distrustfull Bergainers!) you most Love sacrifice, that puts you least to cost; Give her your prayers then; that her Lookes may After long Nights, restore you unto Day. Though Ringing be some charge, and Wood grew deere; In troth; it will become you once a yeare, To offer Bells, and Bonfires too, alltho' You couzen't out in Silks, next publique Show.
