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Then let the beams of that disperse
The cloud, and show the universe;
But at such distance, as the eye
May rather yet adore, than spy.
The heaven designed, draw next a spring,
With all that youth, or it can bring;
Four rivers branching forth like seas,
And Paradise confining these 130

Last, draw the circles of this globe,
And let there be a starry robe
Of constellations 'bout her hurled :
And thou hast painted Beauty's world.
But, painter, see thou do not sell
A copy of this piece; nor tell
Whose 'tis : but if it favor find,
Next sitting we will draw her mind.

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Painter, you're come,

but
may

be

gone; Now I have better thought thereon, This work I can perform alone; And give you reasons more than one.

Not that your art I do refuse,
But here I may no colors use.
Beside, your

hand will never hit, To draw a thing that cannot sit.

130 Bordering upon.

You could make shift to paint an eye,
An eagle towering in the sky,
The sun, a sea, or soundless pit;
But these are like a mind, not it.

No, to express this mind to sense,
Would ask a heaven's intelligence;
Since nothing can report that flame,
But what's of kin to whence it came.

Sweet Mind, then speak yourself, and say,
As you go on, by what brave way
Our sense you do with knowledge fill,
And yet remain our wonder still.

I call you, Muse, now make it true:
Henceforth may every line be you;
That all may say, that see the frame,
This is no picture, but the same.

A mind so pure, so perfect fine,
As 'tis not radiant, but divine;
And so disdaining any trier,
'Tis got where it can try the fire.

There, high exalted in the sphere,
As it another nature were,
It moveth all; and makes a flight
As circular as infinite.

Whose notions when it will express
In speech, it is with that excess

Of grace,

and music to the ear, As what it spoke, it planted there.

The voice so sweet, the words so fair,
As some soft chime had stroked the air;
And though the sound had parted thence,
Still left an echo in the sense.

But that a mind so rapt, so high,
So swift, so pure, should yet apply
Itself to us, and come so nigh
Earth’s grossness; there's the how and why.

Is it because it sees us dull,
And sunk in clay here, it would pull
Us forth, by some celestial sleight,
Up to her own sublimed height?

Or hath she here, upon the ground,
Some Paradise or palace found,
In all the bounds of beauty, fit
For her t’ inhabit? There is it.

Thrice happy house, that hast receipt
For this so lofty form, so straight,
So polished, perfect, round and even,
As it slid moulded off from heaven.

Not swelling, like the ocean proud,
But stooping gently, as a cloud,
As smooth as oil poured forth, and calm
As showers, and sweet as drops of balm.

Smooth, soft, and sweet, in all.a flood,
Where it may run to any good ;
And where it stays, it there becomes
A nest of odorous spice and gums.
In action, winged as the wind;
In rest, like spirits left behind
Upon a bank, or field of flowers,
Begotten by the wind and showers.

In thee, fair mansion, let it rest,
Yet know, with what thou art possessed,
Thou, entertaining in thy breast

But such a mind, mak'st God thy guest. (A whole quaternion in the midst of this poem is lost, con

taining entirely the three next pieces of it, and all of the fourth (which in the order of the whole is the eighth) excepting the very end : which at the top of the next quater. nion goeth on thus :]

VIII. A FRAGMENT.

But for you, growing gentlemen, the happy branches of two so illustrious houses as these, wherefrom your honored mother is in both lines descended ; let me leave you this last legacy of counsel ; which, so soon as you arrive at years of mature understanding, open you, sir, that are the eldest, and read it to your brethren, for it will concern you all alike. Vowed by a faithful servant and client of your fanıily, with his latest breath expiring it.

B. I. TO KENELY, JOUX, GEORGE. 181 Boast not these titles of

your ancestors, Brave youths, they're their possessions, none

of yours.

131 The three sons of Lady Digby.

When your own virtues equalled have their

names, 'Twill be but fair to lean upon their fames; For they are strong supporters; but, till then, The greatest are but growing gentlemen. It is a wretched thing to trust to reeds; Which all men do, that urge not their own deeds Up to their ancestors : the river's side By which you're planted, shows your fruit shall

bide. Hang all your rooms with one large pedigree; 'Tis virtue alone is true nobility : Which virtue from your father, ripe, will fall; Study illustrious him, and you have all.

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The truly honored lady, The LADY VENETIA DIGBY ; who

liring yare me leave to call her so, being her 'ATTOOENIE, or, Relation to the Saints.'

Sera quidem tanto struitur medicina doloris. 'Twere time that I died too, now she is dead, Who was my muse, and life of all I did; The spirit that I wrote with, and conceived, All that was good, or great with me, she weaved, And set it forth: the rest were cobwebs fine, Spun out in name of some of the old Nine, To hang a window, or make dark the room, Till swept away, th’were cancelled with a broom! Nothing that could remain, or yet can stir A sorrow in me, fit to wait to her!

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