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Best Famous Anne Killigrew Poems

Here is a collection of the all-time best famous Anne Killigrew poems. This is a select list of the best famous Anne Killigrew poetry. Reading, writing, and enjoying famous Anne Killigrew poetry (as well as classical and contemporary poems) is a great past time. These top poems are the best examples of Anne Killigrew poems.

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Written by Anne Killigrew |

A Pastoral Dialogue.

SAbæan Perfumes fragrant Roses bring, With all the Flowers that Paint the gaudy Spring: Scatter them all in young Alexis's way, With all that's sweet and (like himself) that's Gay.
Immortal Laurels and as lasting Praise, Crown the divine Dorinda's matchless Laies: May all Hearts stoop, where mine would gladly yield, Had not Lycoris prepossest the Field.
Would my Alexis meet my noble Flame, In all Ausonia neither Youth nor Dame, Should so renown'd in Deathless Numbers shine, As thy exalted Name should do in mine.
He'll need no Trophie nor ambitious Hearse, Who shall be honour'd by Dorinda's Verse; But where it is inscrib'd, That here doth lie Lycoris's Love.
That Fame can never die.
On Tyber's Bank I Thyrsis did espie, And by his side did bright Lycoris lie; She Crown'd his Head, and Kist his amorous Brow, Ah Poor Alexis! Ah then where wer't thou? Alex.
When thou saw'st that, I ne'r had seen my Fair, And what pas'd then ought not to be my Care; I liv'd not then, but first began to be, When I Lycoris Lov'd, and she Lov'd me.
Ah choose a Faith, a Faith that's like thine own, A Virgin Love, a Love that's newly blown: 'Tis not enough a Maidens Heart is chast, It must be Single, and not once mis-plac't.
Thus do our Priests of Heavenly Pastures tell, Eternal Groves, all Earthly, that excel: And think to wean us from our Loves below, By dazling Objects which we cannot know.

Written by Anne Killigrew |

An Epitaph on her Self.

 WHen I am Dead, few Friends attend my Hearse, 
And for a Monument, I leave my VERSE.

Written by Anne Killigrew |

The Fourth EPIGRAM. (On GALLA)

 NOw liquid Streams by the fierce Gold do grow
As solid as the Rocks from whence they flow; 
Now Tibers Banks with Ice united meet, 
And it's firm Stream may well be term'd its Street; 
Now Vot'ries 'fore the Shrines like Statues show, 
And scarce the Men from Images we know; 
Now Winters Palsey seizes ev'ry Age, 
And none's so warm, but feels the Seasons Rage; 
Even the bright Lillies and triumphant Red
Which o're Corinna's youthful cheeks are spred, 
Look pale and bleak, and shew a purple hew, 
And Violets staine, where Roses lately grew.
Galla alone, with wonder we behold, Maintain her Spring, and still out-brave the Cold; Her constant white does not to Frost give place, Nor fresh Vermillion fade upon her face: Sure Divine beauty in this Dame does shine? Not Humane, one reply'd, yet not Divine.

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Written by Anne Killigrew |

Penelope to Ulysses.

 REturn my dearest Lord, at length return, 
Let me no longer your sad absence mourn, 
Ilium in Dust, does no more Work afford, 
No more Employment for your Wit or Sword.
Why did not the fore-seeing Gods destroy, Helin the Fire-brand both of Greece and Troy, E're yet the Fatal Youth her Face had seen, E're lov'd and born away the wanton Queen ? Then had been stopt the mighty Floud of Woe, Which now both Greece and Phrygia over-flow: Then I, these many Teares, should not have shed, Nor thou, the source of them, to War been led: I should not then have trembled at the Fame Of Hectors warlike and victorious Name.
Why did I wish the Noble Hector Slain ? Why Ilium ruin'd ? Rise, O rise again ! Again great City flourish from thine Urne: For though thou'rt burn'd, my Lord does not return.
Sometimes I think, (but O most Cruel Thought,) That, for thy Absence, th'art thy self in fault: That thou art captiv'd by some captive Dame, Who, when thou fired'st Troy, did thee inflame And now with her thou lead'st thy am'rous Life, Forgetful, and despising of thy Wife.

Written by Anne Killigrew |

Upon the saying that my VERSES were made by another.

 NExt Heaven my Vows to thee (O Sacred Muse! ) 
I offer'd up, nor didst thou them refuse.
O Queen of Verse, said I, if thou'lt inspire, And warm my Soul with thy Poetique Fire, No Love of Gold shall share with thee my Heart, Or yet Ambition in my Brest have Part, More Rich, more Noble I will ever hold The Muses Laurel, than a Crown of Gold.
An Undivided Sacrifice I'le lay Upon thine Altar, Soul and Body pay; Thou shalt my Pleasure, my Employment be, My All I'le make a Holocaust to thee.
The Deity that ever does attend Prayers so sincere, to mine did condescend.
I writ, and the Judicious prais'd my Pen: Could any doubt Insuing Glory then ? What pleasing Raptures fill'd my Ravisht Sense ? How strong, how Sweet, Fame, was thy Influence ? And thine, False Hope, that to my flatter'd sight Didst Glories represent so Near, and Bright ? By thee deceiv'd, methought, each Verdant Tree, Apollos transform'd Daphne seem'd to be; And ev'ry fresher Branch, and ev'ry Bow Appear'd as Garlands to empale my Brow.
The Learn'd in Love say, Thus the Winged Boy Does first approach, drest up in welcome Joy; At first he to the Cheated Lovers sight Nought represents, but Rapture and Delight, Alluring Hopes, Soft Fears, which stronger bind Their Hearts, than when they more assurance find.
Embolden'd thus, to Fame I did commit, (By some few hands) my most Unlucky Wit.
But, ah, the sad effects that from it came ! What ought t'have brought me Honour, brought me shame ! Like Esops Painted Jay I seem'd to all, Adorn'd in Plumes, I not my own could call: Rifl'd like her, each one my Feathers tore, And, as they thought, unto the Owner bore.
My Laurels thus an Others Brow adorn'd, My Numbers they Admir'd, but Me they scorn'd: An others Brow, that had so rich a store Of Sacred Wreaths, that circled it before; Where mine quite lost, (like a small stream that ran Into a Vast and Boundless Ocean) Was swallow'd up, with what it joyn'd and drown'd, And that Abiss yet no Accession found.
Orinda, (Albions and her Sexes Grace) Ow'd not her Glory to a Beauteous Face, It was her Radiant Soul that shon With-in, Which struk a Lustre through her Outward Skin; That did her Lips and Cheeks with Roses dy, Advanc't her Height, and Sparkled in her Eye.
Nor did her Sex at all obstruct her Fame, But higher 'mong the Stars it fixt her Name; What she did write, not only all allow'd, But ev'ry Laurel, to her Laurel, bow'd ! Th'Envious Age, only to Me alone, Will not allow, what I do write, my Own, But let 'em Rage, and 'gainst a Maide Conspire, So Deathless Numbers from my Tuneful Lyre Do ever flow; so Phebus I by thee Divinely Inspired and possest may be; I willingly accept Cassandras Fate, To speak the Truth, although believ'd too late

Written by Anne Killigrew |

First EPIGRAM. (Upon being Contented with a Little)

 WE deem them moderate, but Enough implore, 
What barely will suffice, and ask no more: 
Who say, (O Jove) a competency give, 
Neither in Luxury, or Want we'd live.
But what is that, which these Enough do call? If both the Indies unto some should fall, Such Wealth would yet Enough but onely be, And what they'd term not Want, or Luxury.
Among the Suits, O Jove, my humbler take; A little give, I that Enough will make.

Written by Anne Killigrew |

The Third Epigram. (On an ATHEIST)

 POsthumus boasts he does not Thunder fear, 
And for this cause would Innocent appear; 
That in his Soul no Terrour he does feel, 
At threatn'd Vultures, or Ixion's Wheel, 
Which fright the Guilty: But when Fabius told
What Acts 'gainst Murder lately were enrol'd, 
'Gainst Incest, Rapine, ---- straight upon the Tale
His Colour chang'd, and Posthumus grew pale.
His Impious Courage had no other Root, But that the Villaine, Atheist was to boot.

Written by Anne Killigrew |


 WAnton Bellinda loudly does complain, 
I've chang'd my Love of late into disdain: 

Calls me unconstant, cause I now adore
The chast Marcella, that lov'd her before.
Sin or Dishonour, me as well may blame, That I repent, or do avoid a shame.

Written by Anne Killigrew |

On my Aunt Mrs A. K. Drownd under London-Bridge in the QUEENS Bardge Anno 1641.

 THe Darling of a Father Good and Wise, 
The Vertue, which a Vertuous Age did prize; 
The Beauty Excellent even to those were Faire, 
Subscrib'd unto, by such as might compare; 
The Star that 'bove her Orb did always move, 
And yet the Noblest did not Hate, but Love; 
And those who most upon their Title stood, 
Vail'd also to, because she did more Good.
To whom the Wrong'd, and Worthy did resort, And held their Sutes obtain'd, if only brought; The highest Saint in all the Heav'n of Court.
So Noble was her Aire, so Great her Meen, She seem'd a Friend, not Servant to the Queen.
To Sin, if known, she never did give way, Vice could not Storm her, could it not betray.
When angry Heav'n extinguisht her fair Light, It seem'd to say, Nought's Precious in my sight; As I in Waves this Paragon have drown'd, The Nation next, and King I will confound.

Written by Anne Killigrew |

On a Picture Painted by her self representing two Nimphs of DIANAs one in a posture to Hunt the other Batheing

 WE are Diana's Virgin-Train, 
Descended of no Mortal Strain; 
Our Bows and Arrows are our Goods, 
Our Pallaces, the lofty Woods, 
The Hills and Dales, at early Morn, 
Resound and Eccho with our Horn; 
We chase the Hinde and Fallow-Deer, 
The Wolf and Boar both dread our Spear; 

In Swiftness we out-strip the Wind, 
An Eye and Thought we leave behind; 
We Fawns and Shaggy Satyrs awe; 
To Sylvan Pow'rs we give the Law:
Whatever does provoke our Hate, 
Our Javelins strike, as sure as Fate; 
We bathe in Springs, to cleanse the Soil, 
Contracted by our eager Toil; 
In which we shine like glittering Beams, 
Or Christal in the Christal Streams; 
Though Venus we transcend in Form,
No wanton Flames our Bosomes warm! 
If you ask where such Wights do dwell, 
In what Bless't Clime, that so excel? 
The Poets onely that can tell.

Written by Anne Killigrew |

On a young Lady Whose LORD was Travelling.

 NO sooner I pronounced Celindas name,
But Troops of wing'd Pow'rs did chant the fame: 
Not those the Poets Bows and Arrows lend, 
But such as on the Altar do attend.
Celinda nam'd, Flow'rs spring up from the Ground, Excited meerly with the Charming Sound.
Celinda, the Courts Glory, and its fear, The gaz'd at Wonder, where she does appear.
Celinda great in Birth, greater in Meen, Yet none so humble as this Fair-One's seen.
Her Youth and Beauty justly might disdain, But the least Pride her Glories ne're did stain.
Celinda of each State th'ambitious Strife, At once a Noble Virgin, and a Wife Who, while her Gallant Lord in Forraign parts Adorns his Youth with all accomplisht Arts, Grows ripe at home in Vertue, more than Years, And in each Grace a Miracle appears ! When other of her Age a madding go, To th' Park and Plays, and ev'ry publick Show, Proud from their Parents Bondage they have broke, Though justly freed, she still does wear the Yoke; Preferring more her Mothers Friend to be, Than Idol of the Towns Loose-Gallantry.
On her she to the Temple does attend, Where they their Blessed Hours both save and spend.
They Smile, they Joy, together they do Pray, You'd think two Bodies did One Soul obey: Like Angels thus they do reflect their Bliss, And their bright Vertues each the other kiss.
Return young Lord, while thou abroad dost rome The World to see, thou loosest Heaven at Home.

Written by Anne Killigrew |

On the Birth-Day of Queen Katherine

 WHile yet it was the Empire of the Night, 
And Stars still check'r'd Darkness with their Light, 
From Temples round the cheerful Bells did ring, 
But with the Peales a churlish Storm did sing.
I slumbr'd; and the Heavens like things did show, Like things which I had seen and heard below.
Playing on Harps Angels did singing fly, But through a cloudy and a troubl'd Sky, Some fixt a Throne, and Royal Robes display'd, And then a Massie Cross upon it laid.
I wept: and earnestly implor'd to know, Why Royal Ensigns were disposed so.
An Angel said, The Emblem thou hast seen, Denotes the Birth-Day of a Saint and Queen.
Ah, Glorious Minister, I then reply'd, Goodness and Bliss together do reside In Heaven and thee, why then on Earth below These two combin'd so rarely do we know ? He said, Heaven so decrees: and such a Sable Morne Was that, in which the Son of God was borne.
Then Mortal wipe thine Eyes, and cease to rave, God darkn'd Heaven, when He the World did save.

Written by Anne Killigrew |

A Farewel (To Worldly Joys.)

 FArewel ye Unsubstantial Joyes, 
Ye Gilded Nothings, Gaudy Toyes, 
Too long ye have my Soul misled, 
Too long with Aiery Diet fed: 
But now my Heart ye shall no more
Deceive, as you have heretofore: 
For when I hear such Sirens sing, 
Like Ithaca's fore-warned King, 
With prudent Resolution I
Will so my Will and Fancy tye, 
That stronger to the Mast not he,
Than I to Reason bound will be: 
And though your Witchcrafts strike my Ear, 
Unhurt, like him, your Charms I'll hear.

Written by Anne Killigrew |

ON THE Dutchess of Grafton Under the Name of Alinda.

TH'ambitious Eye that seeks alone, Where Beauties Wonders most are shown; Of all that bounteous Heaven displays, Let him on bright Alinda gaze; And in her high Example see, All can admir'd, or wisht-for, be ! II.
An unmatch't Form, Mind like endow'd, Estate, and Title great and proud; A Charge Heaven dares to few commit, So few, like her, can manage it; Without all Blame or Envy bear.
The being Witty, Great, and Fair ! III.
So well these Murd'ring Weapons weild, As first Herself with them to shield, Then slaughter none in proud Disport, Destroy those she invites to Gourt: Great are her Charmes, but Vertue more, She wounds no Hearts, though All adore.
'Tis Am'rous Beauty Love invites, A Passion, like it self, excites: The Paragon, though all admire, Kindles in none a fond desire: No more than those the Kings Renown And State applaud, affect his Crown.

Written by Anne Killigrew |

TO My Lord Colrane In Answer to his Complemental Verses sent me under the Name of CLEANOR

 LOng my dull Muse in heavy slumbers lay, 
Indulging Sloth, and to soft Ease gave way, 
Her Fill of Rest resolving to enjoy, 
Or fancying little worthy her employ.
When Noble Cleanors obliging Strains Her, the neglected Lyre to tune, constrains.
Confus'd at first, she rais'd her drowsie Head, Ponder'd a while, then pleas'd, forsook her Bed.
Survey'd each Line with Fancy richly fraught, Re-read, and then revolv'd them in her Thought.
And can it be ? she said, and can it be ? That 'mong the Great Ones I a Poet see ? The Great Ones? who their Ill-spent time devide, 'Twixt dang'rous Politicks, and formal Pride, Destructive Vice, expensive Vanity, In worse Ways yet, if Worse there any be: Leave to Inferiours the despised Arts, Let their Retainers be the Men of Parts.
But here with Wonder and with Joy I find, I'th'Noble Born, a no less Noble Mind; One, who on Ancestors, does not rely For Fame, in Merit, as in Title, high! The Severe Goddess thus approv'd the Laies: Yet too much pleas'd, alas, with her own Praise.
But to vain Pride, My Muse, cease to give place, Virgils immortal Numbers once did grace A Smother'd Gnat: By high Applause is shown, If undeserv'd, the Praisers worth alone: Nor that you should believ't, is't always meant, 'Tis often for Instruction only sent, To praise men to Amendment, and display, By its Perfection, where their Weakness lay.
This Use of these Applauding Numbers make Them for Example, not Encomium, take.