44
Tixall Poetry.
Which had it formed its sceanes by her,
Had all turn'd vertues theater.
But malice grew so high, that she
And vertue made one tragedy.
A beauty, both mature and new;
Impregnable, yet pregnant too.
So Paradise made Autumn good,
Without the fall of bloome or budd.
Or, as the sun transplants his face
On every planett's looking-glasse,
Yet looses not one glorys ray
In thos epitomes of day,
Untill, by dead of night opprest,
Himself he must betake to rest,
Leaving thos budding lights full blown,
And turn'd to sunnes now every one:
So she, though printing every yeare,
Coppys of her owne caracter,
Left beauty's perfect stamp in all,
Yet wasted not th' originall,
Till heaven, in love, contriv'd her second birth,
And left thos shining epitaphs on earth.
Had all turn'd vertues theater.
But malice grew so high, that she
And vertue made one tragedy.
A beauty, both mature and new;
Impregnable, yet pregnant too.
So Paradise made Autumn good,
Without the fall of bloome or budd.
Or, as the sun transplants his face
On every planett's looking-glasse,
Yet looses not one glorys ray
In thos epitomes of day,
Untill, by dead of night opprest,
Himself he must betake to rest,
Leaving thos budding lights full blown,
And turn'd to sunnes now every one:
So she, though printing every yeare,
Coppys of her owne caracter,
Left beauty's perfect stamp in all,
Yet wasted not th' originall,
Till heaven, in love, contriv'd her second birth,
And left thos shining epitaphs on earth.
