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Written by Anne Killigrew | Create an image from this poem

A Pastoral Dialogue

STay gentle Nymph, nor so solic'tous be, To fly his sight that still would gaze on thee.
With other Swaines I see thee oft converse, Content to speak, and hear what they rehearse: But I unhappy, when I e're draw nigh, Thou streight do'st leave both Place, and Company.
If this thy Flight, from fear of Harm doth flow, Ah, sure thou little of my Heart dost know.
What wonder, Swain, if the Pursu'd by Flight, Seeks to avoid the close Pursuers Sight ? And if no Cause I have to fly from thee, Then thou hast none, why thou dost follow me.
If to the Cause thou wilt propitious prove, Take it at once, fair Nymph, and know 'tis Love.
To my just Pray'r, ye favouring Gods attend, These Vows to Heaven with equal Zeal I send, My flocks from Wolves, my Heart from Love, defend.
The Gods which did on thee such Charms bestow, Ne're meant thou shouldst to Love have prov'd a Foe, That so Divine a Power thou shouldst defy.
Could there a Reason be, I'd ask thee, why ? Alin.
Why does Licoris, once so bright and gay, Pale as a Lilly pine her self away ? Why does Elvira, ever sad, frequent The lonely shades ? Why does yon Monument Which we upon our Left Hand do behold, Hapless Amintas youthful Limbs enfold ? Say Shepherd, say: But if thou wilt not tell, Damon, Philisides, and Strephon well Can speak the Cause, whose Falshood each upbraids, And justly me from Cruel Love disswades.
Hear me ye Gods.
Me and my Flocks forsake, If e're like them my promis'd Faith I brake.
By others sad Experience wise I'le be.
But such thy Wisdom highly injures me: And nought but Death can give a Remedy.
Yet Learn'd in Physick, what does it avail, That you by Art (wherein ye never fail) Present Relief have for the Mad-dogs Bite ? The Serpents sting ? The poisonous Achonite ? While helpless Love upbraids your baffl'd skill, And far more certain, than the rest, doth kill.
Fond Swain, go dote upon the new blown Rose, Whose Beauty with the Morning did disclose, And e're Days King forsakes th'enlightened Earth, Wither'd, returns from whence it took its Birth.
As much Excuse will there thy Love attend, As what thou dost on Womens Beauty spend.
Ah Nymph, those Charms which I in thee admire, Can, nor before, nor with thy Life expire.
From Heaven they are, and such as ne're can dye, But with thy Soul they will ascend the Sky ! For though my ravisht Eye beholds in Thee, Such beauty as I can in none else see; That Nature there alone is without blame, Yet did not this my faithful Heart enflame: Nor when in Dance thou mov'st upon the Plaine, Or other Sports pursu'st among the Train Of choicest Nymphs, where thy attractive Grace Shews thee alone, though thousands be in place ! Yet not for these do I Alinda love, Hear then what 'tis, that does my Passion move.
That Thou still Earliest at the Temple art, And still the last that does from thence depart; Pans Altar is by thee the oftnest prest, Thine's still the fairest Offering and the Best; And all thy other Actions seem to be, The true Result of Unfeign'd Piety; Strict in thy self, to others Just and Mild; Careful, nor to Deceive, nor be Beguil'd; Wary, without the least Offence, to live, Yet none than thee more ready to forgive ! Even on thy Beauty thou dost Fetters lay, Least, unawares, it any should betray.
Far unlike, sure, to many of thy Sex, Whose Pride it is, the doting World to vex; Spreading their Universal Nets to take Who e're their artifice can captive make.
But thou command'st thy Sweet, but Modest Eye, That no Inviting Glance from thence should fly.
Beholding with a Gen'rous Disdain, The lighter Courtships of each amorous Swain; Knowing, true Fame, Vertue alone can give: Nor dost thou greedily even that receive.
And what 'bove this thy Character can raise ? Thirsty of Merit, yet neglecting Praise ! While daily these Perfections I discry, Matchless Alinda makes me daily dy.
Thou absent, Flow'rs to me no Odours yield, Nor find I freshness in the dewy Field; Not Thyrsis Voice, nor Melibeus Lire, Can my Sad Heart with one Gay Thought inspire; My thriving Flock ('mong Shepherds Vows the Chief) I unconcern'd behold, as they my Grief.
This I profess, if this thou not believe, A further proof I ready am to give, Command: there's nothing I'le not undertake, And, thy Injunctions, Love will easie make.
Ah, if thou couldst incline a gentle Ear, Of plighted Faith, and hated Hymen hear; Thou hourly then my spotless Love should'st see, That all my Study, how to please, should be; How to protect thee from disturbing Care, And in thy Griefs to bear the greatest share; Nor should a Joy, my Warie Heart surprize, That first I read not in thy charming Eyes.
If ever I to any do impart, My, till this present hour, well-guarded Heart, That Passion I have fear'd, I'le surely prove, For one that does, like to Amintor love.
Ye Gods – Alin.
Shepherd, no more: enough it is that I, Thus long to Love, have listn'd patiently.
Farewel: Pan keep thee, Swain.
And Blessings Thee, Rare as thy Vertues, still accompany.
Written by Anne Killigrew | Create an image from this poem

To the Queen

 AS those who pass the Alps do say, 
The Rocks which first oppose their way, 
And so amazing-High do show, 
By fresh Accents appear but low, 
And when they come unto the last, 
They scorn the dwarfish Hills th'ave past.
So though my Muse at her first flight, Thought she had chose the greatest height, And (imp'd with Alexander's Name) Believ'd there was no further Fame: Behold an Eye wholly Divine Vouchsaf'd upon my Verse to Shine! And from that time I'gan to treat With Pitty him the World call'd Great; To smile at his exalted Fate, Unequal (though Gigantick) State.
I saw that Pitch was not sublime, Compar'd with this which now I climb; His Glories sunk, and were unseen, When once appear'd the Heav'n-born Queen: Victories, Laurels, Conquer'd Kings, Took place among inferiour things.
Now surely I shall reach the Clouds, For none besides such Vertue shrouds: Having scal'd this with holy Strains, Nought higher but the Heaven remains! No more I'll Praise on them bestow, Who to ill Deeds their Glories owe; Who build their Babels of Renown, Upon the poor oppressed Crown, Whole Kingdoms do depopulate, To raise a Proud and short-Liv'd State: I prize no more such Frantick Might, Than his that did with Wind-Mills Fight: No, give me Prowess, that with Charms Of Grace and Goodness, not with Harms, Erects a Throne i'th' inward Parts, And Rules mens Wills, but with their Hearts; Who with Piety and Vertue thus Propitiates God, and Conquers us.
O that now like Araunah here, Altars of Praises I could rear, Suiting her worth, which might be seen Like a Queens Present, to a Queen! 'Alone she stands for Vertues Cause, 'When all decry, upholds her Laws: 'When to Banish her is the Strife, 'Keeps her unexil'd in her Life; 'Guarding her matchless Innocence 'From Storms of boldest Impudence; 'In spight of all the Scoffs and Rage, 'And Persecutions of the Age, 'Owns Vertues Altar, feeds the Flame, 'Adores her much-derided Name; 'While impiously her hands they tie, 'Loves her in her Captivity; 'Like Perseus saves her, when she stands 'Expos'd to the Leviathans.
'So did bright Lamps once live in Urns, 'So Camphire in the water burns, 'So Ætna's Flames do ne'er go out, 'Though Snows do freeze its head without.
How dares bold Vice unmasked walk, And like a Giant proudly stalk? When Vertue's so exalted seen, Arm'd and Triumphant in the Queen? How dares its Ulcerous Face appear, When Heavenly Beauty is so near? But so when God was close at hand, And the bright Cloud did threatning stand (In sight of Israel ) on the Tent, They on in their Rebellion went.
O that I once so happy were, To find a nearer Shelter there! Till then poor Dove, I wandering fly Between the Deluge and the Skie: Till then I Mourn, but do not sing, And oft shall plunge my wearied wing: If her bless'd hand vouchsafe the Grace, I'th' Ark with her to give a place, I safe from danger shall be found, When Vice and Folly others drown'd.
Written by Anne Killigrew | Create an image from this poem

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.
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The Discontent

HEre take no Care, take here no Care, my Muse, Nor ought of Art or Labour use: But let thy Lines rude and unpolisht go, Nor Equal be their Feet, nor Num'rous let them flow.
The ruggeder my Measures run when read, They'l livelier paint th'unequal Paths fond Mortals tread.
Who when th'are tempted by the smooth Ascents, Which flatt'ring Hope presents, Briskly they clime, and Great Things undertake; But Fatal Voyages, alas, they make: For 'tis not long before their Feet, Inextricable Mazes meet, Perplexing Doubts obstruct their Way, Mountains with-stand them of Dismay; Or to the Brink of black Dispaire them lead, Where's nought their Ruine to impede, In vain for Aide they then to Reason call, Their Senses dazle, and their Heads turn round, The sight does all their Pow'rs confound, And headlong down the horrid Precipice they fall: Where storms of Sighs for ever blow, Where raped streams of Tears do flow, Which drown them in a Briny Floud.
My Muse pronounce aloud, there's nothing Good, Nought that the World can show, Nought that it can bestow.
Not boundless Heaps of its admired Clay, Ah, too successful to betray, When spread in our fraile Vertues way: For few do run with so Resolv'd a Pace, That for the Golden Apple will not loose the Race.
And yet not all the Gold the Vain would spend, Or greedy Avarice would wish to save; Which on the Earth refulgent Beams doth send, Or in the Sea has found a Grave, Joyn'd in one Mass, can Bribe sufficient be, The Body from a stern Disease to free, Or purchase for the Minds relief One Moments sweet Repose, when restless made by grief, But what may Laughter, more than Pity, move: When some the Price of what they Dear'st Love Are Masters of, and hold it in their Hand, To part with it their Hearts they can't command: But chose to miss, what miss't does them torment, And that to hug, affords them no Content.
Wise Fools, to do them Right, we these must hold, Who Love depose, and Homage pay to Gold.
Nor yet, if rightly understood, Does Grandeur carry more of Good; To be o'th' Number of the Great enroll'd, A Scepter o're a Mighty Realm to hold.
For what is this? If I not judge amiss.
But all th'Afflicted of a Land to take, And of one single Family to make? The Wrong'd, the Poor, th'Opprest, the Sad, The Ruin'd, Malecontent, and Mad? Which a great Part of ev'ry Empire frame, And Interest in the common Father claime.
Again what is't, but always to abide A Gazing Crowd? upon a Stage to spend A Life that's vain, or Evil without End? And which is yet not safely held, nor laid aside? And then, if lesser Titles carry less of Care, Yet none but Fools ambitious are to share Such a Mock-Good, of which 'tis said, 'tis Best, When of the least of it Men are possest.
But, O, the Laurel'd Fool! that doats on Fame, Whose Hope's Applause, whose Fear's to want a Name; Who can accept for Pay Of what he does, what others say; Exposes now to hostile Arms his Breast, To toylsome Study then betrays his Rest; Now to his Soul denies a just Content, Then forces on it what it does resent; And all for Praise of Fools: for such are those, Which most of the Admiring Crowd compose.
O famisht Soul, which such Thin Food can feed! O Wretched Labour crown'd with such a Meed! Too loud, O Fame! thy Trumpet is, too shrill, To lull a Mind to Rest, Or calme a stormy Breast, Which asks a Musick soft and still.
'Twas not Amaleck's vanquisht Cry, Nor Israels shout of Victory, That could in Saul the rising Passion lay, 'Twas the soft strains of David's Lyre the Evil Spirit chace't away.
But Friendship fain would yet it self defend, And Mighty Things it does pretend, To be of this Sad Journey, Life, the Baite, The Sweet Refection of our toylsome State.
But though True Friendship a Rich Cordial be, Alas, by most 'tis so alay'd, Its Good so mixt with Ill we see, That Dross for Gold is often paid.
And for one Grain of Friendship that is found, Falshood and Interest do the Mass compound, Or coldness, worse than Steel, the Loyal heart doth wound.
Love in no Two was ever yet the same, No Happy Two ere felt an Equal Flame.
Is there that Earth by Humane Foot ne're prest? That Aire which never yet by Humane Breast Respir'd, did Life supply? Oh, thither let me fly! Where from the World at such a distance set, All that's past, present, and to come I may forget: The Lovers Sighs, and the Afflicted Tears, What e're may wound my Eyes or Ears.
The grating Noise of Private Jars, The horrid sound of Publick Wars, Of babling Fame the Idle Stories, The short-liv'd Triumphs Noysy-Glories, The Curious Nets the subtile weave, The Word, the Look that may deceive.
No Mundan Care shall more affect my Breast, My profound Peace shake or molest: But Stupor, like to Death, my Senses bind, That so I may anticipate that Rest, Which only in my Grave I hope to find.
Written by Anne Killigrew | Create an image from this poem

An Epitaph on her Self

 WHen I am Dead, few Friends attend my Hearse, 
And for a Monument, I leave my VERSE.
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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 | Create an image from this poem


 I Sing the Man that never Equal knew, 
Whose Mighty Arms all Asia did subdue, 
Whose Conquests through the spacious World do ring, 
That City-Raser, King-destroying King, 
Who o're the Warlike Macedons did Reign, 
And worthily the Name of Great did gain.
This is the Prince (if Fame you will believe, To ancient Story any credit give.
) Who when the Globe of Earth he had subdu'd, With Tears the easie Victory pursu'd; Because that no more Worlds there were to win, No further Scene to act his Glorys in.
Ah that some pitying Muse would now inspire My frozen style with a Poetique fire, And Raptures worthy of his Matchless Fame, Whose Deeds I sing, whose never fading Name Long as the world shall fresh and deathless last, No less to future Ages, then the past.
Great my presumption is, I must confess, But if I thrive, my Glory's ne're the less; Nor will it from his Conquests derogate A Female Pen his Acts did celebrate.
If thou O Muse wilt thy assistance give, Such as made Naso and great Maro live, With him whom Melas fertile Banks did bear, Live, though their Bodies dust and ashes are; Whose Laurels were not fresher, than their Fame Is now, and will for ever be the same.
If the like favour thou wilt grant to me, O Queen of Verse, I'll not ungrateful be, My choicest hours to thee I'll Dedicate, 'Tis thou shalt rule, 'tis thou shalt be my Fate.
But if Coy Goddess thou shalt this deny, And from my humble suit disdaining fly, I'll stoop and beg no more, since I know this, Writing of him, I cannot write amiss: His lofty Deeds will raise each feeble line, And God-like Acts will make my Verse Divine.
'Twas at the time the golden Sun doth rise, And with his Beams enlights the azure skies, When lo a Troop in Silver Arms drew near, The glorious Sun did nere so bright appear; Dire Scarlet Plumes adorn'd their haughty Crests, And crescent Shields did shade their shining Brests; Down from their shoulders hung a Panthers Hide, A Bow and Quiver ratled by their side; Their hands a knotty well try'd Speare did bear, Jocund they seem'd, and quite devoyd of fear.
These warlike Virgins were, that do reside Near Thermodons smooth Banks and verdant side, The Plains of Themiscyre their Birth do boast, Thalestris now did head the beauteous Host; She emulating that Illustrious Dame, Who to the aid of Troy and Priam came, And her who the Retulian Prince did aid, Though dearly both for their Assistance paid.
But fear she scorn'd, nor the like fate did dread, Her Host she often to the field had lead, As oft in Triumph had return'd again, Glory she only sought for all her pain.
This Martial Queen had heard how lowdly fame, Eccho'd our Conquerors redoubted Name, Her Soul his Conduct and his Courage fir'd, To see the Hero she so much admir'd; And to Hyrcania for this cause she went, Where Alexander (wholly then intent On Triumphs and such Military sport) At Truce with War held both his Camp and Court.
And while before the Town she did attend Her Messengers return, she saw ascend A cloud of Dust, that cover'd all the skie, And still at every pause there stroke her eye.
The interrupted Beams of Burnisht Gold, As dust the Splendour hid, or did unfold; Loud Neighings of the Steeds, and Trumpets sound Fill'd all the Air, and eccho'd from the ground: The gallant Greeks with a brisk March drew near, And their great Chief did at their Head appear.
And now come up to th'Amazonian Band, They made a Hault and a respectful Stand: And both the Troops (with like amazement strook) Did each on other with deep silence look.
Th'Heroick Queen (whose high pretence to War Cancell'd the bashful Laws and nicer Bar Of Modesty, which did her Sex restrain) First boldly did advance before her Train, And thus she spake.
All but a God in Name, And that a debt Time owes unto thy Fame.
This was the first Essay of this young Lady in Poetry, but finding the Task she had undertaken hard, she laid it by till Practice and more time should make her equal to so great a Work.
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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.
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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
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Upon a Little Lady Under the Discipline of an Excellent Person

HOw comes the Day orecast ? the Flaming Sun Darkn'd at Noon, as if his Course were run ? He never rose more proud, more glad, more gay, Ne're courted Daphne with a brighter Ray ! And now in Clouds he wraps his Head, As if not Daphne, but himself were dead ! And all the little Winged Troop Forbear to sing, and sit and droop; The Flowers do languish on their Beds, And fading hang their Mourning Heads; The little Cupids discontented, shew, In Grief and Rage one breaks his Bow, An other tares his Cheeks and Haire, A third sits blubring in Despaire, Confessing though, in Love, he be, A Powerful, Dreadful Deitie, A Child, in Wrath, can do as much as he: Whence is this Evil hurl'd, On all the sweetness of the World ? Among those Things with Beauty shine, (Both Humane natures, and Divine) There was not so much sorrow spi'd, No, no that Day the sweet Adonis died ! II.
Ambitious both to know the Ill, and to partake, The little Weeping Gods I thus bespake.
Ye Noblest Pow'rs and Gentlest that Above, Govern us Men, but govern still with Love, Vouchsafe to tell, what can that Sorrow be, Disorders Heaven, and wounds a Deitie.
My Prayer not spoken out, One of the Winged Rout, With Indignation great, Sprung from his Airie-Seat, And mounting to a Higher Cloud, With Thunder, or a Voice as loud Cried, Mortal there, there seek the Grief o'th'Gods, Where thou findst Plagues, and their revengeful Rods ! And in the Instant that the Thing was meant, He bent his Bow, his Arrow plac't, and to the mark it sent ! I follow'd with my watchful Eye, To the Place where the Shaft did flie, But O unheard-of Prodigy.
It was retorted back again, And he that sent it, felt the pain, Alas! I think the little God was therewith slain ! But wanton Darts ne're pierce where Honours found, And those that shoot them, do their own Breasts wound.
The Place from which the Arrow did return, Swifter than sent, and with the speed did burn, Was a Proud Pile which Marble Columnes bare, Tarrast beneath, and open to the Aire, On either side, Cords of wove Gold did tie A purfl'd Curtain, hanging from on high, To clear the Prospect of the stately Bower, And boast the Owners Dignity and Power ! This shew'd the Scene from whence Loves grief arose, And Heaven and Nature both did discompose, A little Nymph whose Limbs divinely bright, Lay like a Body of Collected Light, But not to Love and Courtship so disclos'd, But to the Rigour of a Dame oppos'd, Who instant on the Faire with Words and Blows, Now chastens Error, and now Virtue shews.
But O thou no less Blind, Than Wild and Savage Mind, Who Discipline dar'st name, Thy Outrage and thy shame, And hop'st a Radiant Crown to get All Stars and Glory to thy Head made fit, Know that this Curse alone shall Serpent-like incircle it! May'st thou henceforth, be ever seen to stand, Grasping a Scourge of Vipers in thy Hand, Thy Hand, that Furie like------But see! By Apollos Sacred Tree, By his ever Tuneful Lyre, And his bright Image the Eternal Fire, Eudoras she has done this Deed And made the World thus in its Darling bleed ! I know the Cruel Dame, Too well instructed by my Flame ! But see her shape ! But see her Face ! In her Temple such is Diana's Grace ! Behold her Lute upon the Pavement lies, When Beautie's wrong'd, no wonder Musick dies ! V.
What blood of Centaurs did thy Bosom warme, And boyle the Balsome there up to a Storme ? Nay Balsome flow'd not with so soft a Floud, As thy Thoughts Evenly Virtuous, Mildly Good ! How could thy Skilful and Harmonious Hand, That Rage of Seas, and People could command, And calme Diseases with the Charming strings, Such Discords make in the whole Name of Things ? But now I see the Root of thy Rash Pride, Because thou didst Excel the World beside, And it in Beauty and in Fame out-shine, Thou would'st compare thy self to things Divine ! And 'bove thy Standard what thou there didst see, Thou didst Condemn, because 'twas unlike thee, And punisht in the Lady as unfit, What Bloomings were of a Diviner Wit.
Divine she is, or else Divine must be, A Borne or else a Growing Deitie ! VI.
While thus I did exclaime, And wildly rage and blame, Behold the Sylvan-Quire Did all at one conspire, With shrill and cheerful Throats, T'assume their chirping Notes; The Heav'ns refulgent Eye Dance't in the clear'd-up Skie, And so triumphant shon, As seven-days Beams he had on ! The little Loves burn'd with nobler fier.
Each chang'd his wanton Bow, and took a Lyre, Singing chast Aires unto the tuneful strings, And time'd soft Musick with their downy Wings.
I turn'd the little Nymph to view, She singing and did smiling shew; Eudora led a heav'nly strain, Her Angels Voice did eccho it again ! I then decreed no Sacriledge was wrought, But neerer Heav'n this Piece of Heaven was brought.
She also brighter seem'd, than she had been, Vertue darts forth a Light'ning 'bove the Skin.
Eudora also shew'd as heretofore, When her soft Graces I did first adore.
I saw, what one did Nobly Will, The other sweetly did fulfil; Their Actions all harmoniously did sute, And she had only tun'd the Lady like her Lute.
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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 | Create an image from this poem

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 | Create an image from this poem

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.
Written by Anne Killigrew | Create an image from this poem

Cloris Charmes Dissolved by EUDORA

 NOt that thy Fair Hand 
Should lead me from my deep Dispaire, 
Or thy Love, Cloris, End my Care, 
 And back my Steps command: 
But if hereafter thou Retire, 
To quench with Tears, thy Wandring Fire, 
 This Clue I'll leave behinde, 
 By which thou maist untwine
 The Saddest Way, 
 To shun the Day,
 That ever Grief did find.
First take thy Hapless Way Along the Rocky Northern Shore, Infamous for the Matchless Store Of Wracks within that Bay.
None o're the Cursed Beach e're crost, Unless the Robb'd, the Wrack'd, or Lost Where on the Strand lye spread, The Sculls of many Dead.
Their mingl'd Bones, Among the Stones, Thy Wretched Feet must tread.
The Trees along the Coast, Stretch forth to Heaven their blasted Arms, As if they plaind the North-winds harms, And Youthful Verdure lost.
There stands a Grove of Fatal Ewe, Where Sun nere pierc't, nor Wind ere blew.
In it a Brooke doth fleet, The Noise must guide thy Feet, For there's no Light, But all is Night, And Darkness that you meet.
Follow th'Infernal Wave, Until it spread into a Floud, Poysoning the Creatures of the Wood, There twice a day a Slave, I know not for what Impious Thing, Bears thence the Liquor of that Spring.
It adds to the sad Place, To hear how at each Pace, He curses God, Himself, his Load, For such his Forlorn Case.
Next make no Noyse, nor talk, Until th'art past a Narrow Glade, Where Light does only break the Shade; 'Tis a Murderers Walk.
Observing this thou need'st not fear, He sleeps the Day or Wakes elsewhere.
Though there's no Clock or Chime, The Hour he did his Crime, His Soul awakes, His Conscience quakes And warns him that's the Time.
Thy Steps must next advance, Where Horrour, Sin, and Spectars dwell, Where the Woods Shade seems turn'd Hell, Witches here Nightly Dance, And Sprights joyn with them when they call, The Murderer dares not view the Ball.
For Snakes and Toads conspire, To make them up a Quire.
And for their Light, And Torches bright, The Fiends dance all on fire.
Press on till thou descrie Among the Trees sad, gastly, wan, Thinne as the Shadow of a Man, One that does ever crie, She is not; and she ne're will be, Despair and Death come swallow me, Leave him; and keep thy way, No more thou now canst stray Thy Feet do stand, In Sorrows Land, It's Kingdomes every way.
Here Gloomy Light will shew Reard like a Castle to the Skie, A Horrid Cliffe there standing nigh Shading a Creek below.
In which Recess there lies a Cave, Dreadful as Hell, still as the Grave.
Sea-Monsters there abide, The coming of the Tide, No Noise is near, To make them fear, God-sleep might there reside.
But when the Boysterous Seas, With Roaring Waves resumes this Cell, You'd swear the Thunders there did dwell.
So lowd he makes his Plea; So Tempests bellow under ground, And Ecchos multiply the Sound! This is the place I chose, Changeable like my Woes, Now calmly Sad, Then Raging Mad, As move my Bitter Throwes.
Such Dread besets this Part, That all the Horrour thou hast past, Are but Degrees to This at last.
The sight must break my Heart.
Here Bats and Owles that hate the Light Fly and enjoy Eternal Night.
Scales of Serpents, Fish-bones, Th'Adders Eye, and Toad-stones, Are all the Light, Hath blest my Sight, Since first began my Groans.
When thus I lost the Sense, Of all the heathful World calls Bliss, And held it Joy, those Joys to miss, When Beauty was Offence: Celestial Strains did read the Aire, Shaking these Mansions of Despaire; A Form Divine and bright, Stroke Day through all that Night As when Heav'ns Queen In Hell was seen, With wonder and affright ! XII.
The Monsters fled for fear, The Terrors of the Cursed Wood Dismantl'd were, and where they stood, No longer did appear.
The Gentle Pow'r, which wrought this thing, Eudora was, who thus did sing.
Dissolv'd is Cloris spell, From whence thy Evils fell, Send her this Clue, 'Tis there most due And thy Phantastick Hell.
Written by Anne Killigrew | Create an image from this poem

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.