214
Tixall Poetry.
Celia.
by Mr Fanshawe.
Celia hath for a brother's absence sworne,
Rash oath! that since her tresses cannot mourne
In blacke, (because uncut Apollo's hayre
Darts not a greater splendour through the ayre)
She'l make them droope in her neglect; forget
Those rings, which her white hand in order set;
And curiously did every morning curie
Into a thousand snares the silver purle.
But they are disobedient to command,
And swear they owe no homage to her hand:
That Nature is their mistresse, in her name,
The priviledge that they were borne to clayme:
Scorning to have it said, the hayre gave place
To the perfections that all parts doe grace.
So weave themselves in loopes; and curie now more
By carelesnesse, then by her care before.
Like a crisp't comet, which the starres pursue
In throngs, and mortals with pale horror view,
Rash oath! that since her tresses cannot mourne
In blacke, (because uncut Apollo's hayre
Darts not a greater splendour through the ayre)
She'l make them droope in her neglect; forget
Those rings, which her white hand in order set;
And curiously did every morning curie
Into a thousand snares the silver purle.
But they are disobedient to command,
And swear they owe no homage to her hand:
That Nature is their mistresse, in her name,
The priviledge that they were borne to clayme:
Scorning to have it said, the hayre gave place
To the perfections that all parts doe grace.
So weave themselves in loopes; and curie now more
By carelesnesse, then by her care before.
Like a crisp't comet, which the starres pursue
In throngs, and mortals with pale horror view,
