This makes her spleen contract,
And her just pleasure feast:
For the unjustest act
Is still the pleasant'st jest.
NIGHT.
TO LUCASTA.
Night! loathed jaylor of the lock'd up sun,
And tyrant-turnkey on committed day,
Bright eyes lye fettered in thy dungeon,
And Heaven it self doth thy dark wards obey.
Thou dost arise our living hell;
With thee grones, terrors, furies dwell;
Until LUCASTA doth awake,
And with her beams these heavy chaines off shake.
Behold! with opening her almighty lid,
Bright eyes break rowling, and with lustre spread,
And captive day his chariot mounted is;
Night to her proper hell is beat,
And screwed to her ebon seat;
Till th' Earth with play oppressed lies,
And drawes again the curtains of her eyes.
But, bondslave, I know neither day nor night;
Whether she murth'ring sleep, or saving wake;
Now broyl'd ith' zone of her reflected light,
Then frose, my isicles, not sinews shake.
Smile then, new Nature, your soft blast
Doth melt our ice, and fires waste;
Whil'st the scorch'd shiv'ring world new born
Now feels it all the day one rising morn.
LOVE INTHRON'D.
ODE.
I.
Introth, I do my self perswade,
That the wilde boy is grown a man,
And all his childishnesse off laid,
E're since LUCASTA did his fires fan;
H' has left his apish jigs,
And whipping hearts like gigs:
For t' other day I heard him swear,
That beauty should be crown'd in honours chair.
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