Page:Poetical Works of John Oldham.djvu/262

In that white snow which overspreads your skin,
We trace the whiter soul which dwells within;
Which, while you through this shining hue display,
Looks like a star placed in the milky way.
Such the bright bodies of the blessèd are,
When they for raiment clothed with light appear;
And should you visit now the seats of bliss,
You need not wear another form but this.
Never did sickness in such pomp appear,
As when it thus your livery did wear,
Disease itself looked amiable here.
So clouds, which would obscure the sun, oft gilded be,
And shades are taught to shine as bright as he.
Grieve not, fair nymph, when in your glass you trace
The marring footsteps of a pale disease;
Regret not that your cheeks their roses want,
Which a few days shall in full store replant,
Which, whilst your blood withdraws its guilty red,
Tells that you own no faults that blushes need.
The sun, whose bounty does each spring restore
What winter from the rifled meadows tore,
Which every morning with an early ray
Paints the young blushing cheeks of instant day;
Whose skill, inimitable here below,
Limns those gay clouds which form heaven's coloured bow,
That sun shall soon with interest repay
All the lost beauty sickness snatched away;
Your beams, like his, shall hourly now advance,
And every minute their swift growth enhance.
Meanwhile, that you no helps of health refuse,
Accept these humble wishes of the muse;
Which shall not of their just petition fail,
If she (and she's a goddess) aught prevail.
May no profane disease henceforth approach
This sacred temple with unhallowed touch,
Or with rude sacrilege its frame debauch;
May these fair members always happy be,
In as full strength and well-set harmony,