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Tixall Poetry.
An Epicure might prayse, exalt, admire,
His happy careless Gods, but neire desyre,
Nor love, as not relating to their quire.
His happy careless Gods, but neire desyre,
Nor love, as not relating to their quire.
We love our God, because hee's loving knowne,
And though we dy'd, lyke him, for him alone,
Our cheefest love, as his, weire still our owne.
And though we dy'd, lyke him, for him alone,
Our cheefest love, as his, weire still our owne.
We sillily suppose some hidden flame
Of mother's love attracts the bleating lamb,
When tis the milke she seekes, and not the dam.
Of mother's love attracts the bleating lamb,
When tis the milke she seekes, and not the dam.
We dreame some conjugall affection charmes
The vine to clip the elme, her husband's armes,
When tis to leane, and save her bunch from harmes.
The vine to clip the elme, her husband's armes,
When tis to leane, and save her bunch from harmes.
The loadston loves its iron, but tis to feede,
The iron returnes the love, but tis to breed
In 'tself new vertue from that hidden seed.
The iron returnes the love, but tis to breed
In 'tself new vertue from that hidden seed.
But here I pose myself, how can I vewe
Self-love in all, who find no such in you,
To whos high worth all other love is deue?
Self-love in all, who find no such in you,
To whos high worth all other love is deue?
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