an Heroick Poem.
139
CANTO the Seventh.
The Argument.
The Duke's wish'd health in doubtfull wounds assur'd;
Who gets new wounds before the old are cur'd:
Nature in Birtha, Art's weak help derides,
Which strives to mend, what it at best but hides;
Shews Nature's courser works, so hid, more course,
As Sin conceal'd and unconfess'd, grows worse.
The Duke's wish'd health in doubtfull wounds assur'd;
Who gets new wounds before the old are cur'd:
Nature in Birtha, Art's weak help derides,
Which strives to mend, what it at best but hides;
Shews Nature's courser works, so hid, more course,
As Sin conceal'd and unconfess'd, grows worse.
1.
LEt none our Lombard Authour rudely blame,
Who from the Story has thus long digrest;
But for his righteous pains, may his fair Fame
For ever travel, whilst his ashes rest.
LEt none our Lombard Authour rudely blame,
Who from the Story has thus long digrest;
But for his righteous pains, may his fair Fame
For ever travel, whilst his ashes rest.
2.
Ill could he leave Art's Shop of Nature's Store;
Where she the hidden Soul would make more known;
Though common Faith seeks Souls, which is no more
Than long Opinion to Religion grown.
Ill could he leave Art's Shop of Nature's Store;
Where she the hidden Soul would make more known;
Though common Faith seeks Souls, which is no more
Than long Opinion to Religion grown.
3.
A while then let this sage Historian stay
With Astragon, till he new wounds reveals,
And such (though now the old are worn away)
As Balm, nor juice of Pyrol, never heals.
A while then let this sage Historian stay
With Astragon, till he new wounds reveals,
And such (though now the old are worn away)
As Balm, nor juice of Pyrol, never heals.
4.
To Astragon, Heav'n for succession gave
One onely Pledge, and Birtha was her name;
Whose Mother slept, where Flowers grew on her Grave,
And she succeeded her in Face, and Fame.
To Astragon, Heav'n for succession gave
One onely Pledge, and Birtha was her name;
Whose Mother slept, where Flowers grew on her Grave,
And she succeeded her in Face, and Fame.
5.
Her beauty, Princes, durst not hope to use,
Unless, like Poets, for their Morning Theam;
And her Minds beauty they would rather chuse,
Which did the light in Beautie's Lanthorn seem.
Her beauty, Princes, durst not hope to use,
Unless, like Poets, for their Morning Theam;
And her Minds beauty they would rather chuse,
Which did the light in Beautie's Lanthorn seem.
She
