an Heroick Poem.
171
25.
In pity's passion you unvail'd your mind;
Let him not fall, whom you did help to climb;
Nor seem by being bashfull so unkind,
As if you think your pity was a crime.
In pity's passion you unvail'd your mind;
Let him not fall, whom you did help to climb;
Nor seem by being bashfull so unkind,
As if you think your pity was a crime.
26.
O' useless shame! Officious bashfulness!
Virtues vain sign, which onely there appears
Where Virtue grows erroneous by excess,
And shapes more sins, than frighted Conscience fears.
O' useless shame! Officious bashfulness!
Virtues vain sign, which onely there appears
Where Virtue grows erroneous by excess,
And shapes more sins, than frighted Conscience fears.
27.
Your blushes, which to meer complexion grow,
You must, as Nature, not as Virtue own;
And for your open'd Love, you but blush so
As guiltless Roses blush that they are blown.
Your blushes, which to meer complexion grow,
You must, as Nature, not as Virtue own;
And for your open'd Love, you but blush so
As guiltless Roses blush that they are blown.
28.
As well the Morn (whose essence Poets made,
And gave her bashfull Eyes) we may believe
Does blush for what she sees through Night's thin shade,
As that you can for love discover'd grieve.
As well the Morn (whose essence Poets made,
And gave her bashfull Eyes) we may believe
Does blush for what she sees through Night's thin shade,
As that you can for love discover'd grieve.
29.
Arise! and all the Flow'rs of ev'ry Mead
(Which weeping through your Stils my health restor'd)
Bring to the Temple to adorn your Head,
And there where you did worship, be ador'd.
Arise! and all the Flow'rs of ev'ry Mead
(Which weeping through your Stils my health restor'd)
Bring to the Temple to adorn your Head,
And there where you did worship, be ador'd.
30.
This with a low regard (but voice rais'd high
By joys of Love) he spake; and not less kind
Was now (ent'ring with native harmony,
Like forward spring) the blooming Rhodalind:
This with a low regard (but voice rais'd high
By joys of Love) he spake; and not less kind
Was now (ent'ring with native harmony,
Like forward spring) the blooming Rhodalind:
31.
Like Summer, goodly Gartha, fully blown;
Laura, like Autumn, with as ripe a look;
But shew'd, by some chill griefs, her Sun was gone,
Arnold, from whom she Life's short glory took.
Like Summer, goodly Gartha, fully blown;
Laura, like Autumn, with as ripe a look;
But shew'd, by some chill griefs, her Sun was gone,
Arnold, from whom she Life's short glory took.
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