MADAM,SO sleeps the Anchoret on his cheap bed,(whose sleep wants only length to prove him dead)As I last night, whom the swift wings of Thought,Convey'd to see what our bold faith had taught;Elizium, where restored formes nere fade;Where growth can need no seeds, nor light a shade;The joyes which in our flesh, through fraile expenceOf strentgh, through age, were lost t'our injur'd sense,Wee there doe meet agen; and those we tasteAnew, which though devour'd, yet ever last:The scatter'd treasure of the Spring, blowne byAutumn's rude winds from our discoverie;Lillies, and Roses; all that's faire and sweet,There reconcil'd to their first roots we meet:There, only those triumphant Lovers reigne,Whose passions knew on earth so little staine,Like Angels they nere felt what sexes meant;Virtue, was first their nature, then intent:There, toyling Victors safely are possest,With servent youth, eternitie, and rest;But they were such, who when they got the field;To teach the conquer'd, victorie, could yeeldThemselves againe; as if true glorie wereTo bring the foe to courage, not to feare.There are no talking Greeks, who their blood lost,Not for the cause, but for a theame to boast;As if they strove enough for Fame, that soughtTo have their Batailes better told, than fought.There I a Vestal's Shadow first did spy,Who when a live with holy huswifry,Trick'd up in lawne, and flow'ry Wreaths (each handCleane as her thoughts) did'fore the Altar stand:So busie still, strewing her Spice, and thenRemoving Coales, vexing the Fire agen,As if some queasie Goddesse had profess'd,To taste no smoak that day, but what she dress'd:This holy coyle she living kept; but farreMore busie now, with more delightfull careThan when she watch'd the consecrated Flame,Sh'attends the Shade of gentle Buckingham;Who there unenvi'd sits, with Chaplets crownd;And with wise scorne, smiles on the Peoples wound;He call'd it so; for though it touch'd his heart,His Nation feeles the rancour, and the smart.
