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 expence Of strentgh, through age, were lost t'our injur'd sense, Wee there doe meet agen; and those we taste Anew, which though devour'd, yet ever last: The scatter'd treasure of the Spring, blowne by Autumn'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 yeeld Themselves againe; as if true glorie were To 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 sought To 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 hand Cleane as her thoughts) did'fore the Altar stand: So busie still, strewing her Spice, and then Removing 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 farre More busie now, with more delightfull care Than 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.
