The Works of Abraham Cowley/Volume 1/To a Lady who made Posies for Rings

by Abraham Cowley

 

TO A LADY

WHO MADE POSIES FOR RINGS.

I little thought the time would ever be,
That I should wit in dwarfish posies see.
As all words in few letters live,
Thou to few words all sense dost give.
'T was Nature taught you this rare art,
In such a little much to shew;
Who, all the good she did impart
To womankind, epitomiz'd in you.

If, as the ancients did not doubt to sing.
The turning years be well compar'd to' a ring,
We'll write whate'er from you we hear;
For that 's the posy of the year.
This difference only will remain—
That Time his former face does shew,
Winding into himself again;
But your unweary'd wit is always new.

'T is said that conjurers have an art found out
To carry spirits confin'd in rings about:
The wonder now will less appear,
When we behold your magic here.
You, by your rings, do prisoners take,
And chain them with your mystic spells,
And, the strong witchcraft full to make,
Love, the great devil, charm'd to those circles, dwells.

They who above do various circles find,
Say, like a ring th' Equator heaven does bind.
When heaven shall be adorn'd by thee
(Which then more Heaven than 't is will be),
'T is thou must write the posy there;
For it wanteth one as yet,
Though the sun pass through 't twice a year;
The sun, who is esteem'd the god of wit.

Happy the hands which wear thy sacred rings,
They 'll teach those hands to write mysterious things.
Let other rings, with jewels bright,
Cast around their costly light;
Let them want no noble stone,
By nature rich and art refin'd;
Yet shall thy rings give place to none,
But only that which must thy marriage bind.

 

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