Written in Iuice of Lemmon.

WHilst what I write I do not see,
I dare thus, even to you, write Poetrie.
Ah foolish Muse, which do'st so high aspire,
And know'st her judgement well
How much it does thy power excell,
Yet dar'st be read by, thy just doom, the Fire.

Alas, thou think'st thy self secure,
Because thy form is Innocent and Pure:
Like Hypocrites, which seem unspotted here;
But when they sadly come to dy,
And the last Fire their Truth must try,
Scrauld o're like thee, and blotted they appeare.

Go then, but reverently go,
And, since thou needs must sin, confess it too:
Confes't, and with humility cloth thy shame;
For thou, who else must burned bee
An Heretick, if she pardon thee,
May'st like a Martyr then enjoy the Flame.

But if her wisdom grow severe,
And suffer not her goodness to be there;
If her large mercies cruelly it restrain;
Be not discourag'd, but require
A more gentle Ordeal Fire,
And bid her by Loves-Flames read it again.

Strange power of heat, thou yet dost show
Like winter earth, naked, or cloath'd with snow,
But, as the quickning Sun approaching near,
The Plants arise up by degrees,
A sudden paint adorns the trees,
And all kind Natures Characters appear.

So, nothing yet in Thee is seene,
But soon as Genial heat warms thee within,
A new born Wood of various Lines there grows;
Here buds an A, and there a B,
Here sprouts a V, and there a T,
And all the flourishing Letters stand in Rows.

Still, seely Paper, thou wilt think
That all this might as well be writ with Ink.
Oh no; there's sense in this, and Mysterie;
Thou now maist change thy Authors name,
And to her Hand lay noble claim;
For as She Reads, she Makes the words in Thee.

Yet if thine own unworthiness
Will still, that thou art mine, not Hers, confess;
Consume thy self with Fire before her Eyes,
And so her Grace or Pitty move;
The Gods, though Beasts they do not Love,
Yet like them when they'r burnt In Sacrifice.