The Recovery

HAil gentle virgin! now my joys renew
Their plumes, for they were Sick as well as you,
And had you dy'd they had been buried too.

How oft betwixt my hope, and fear I dy'd;
Each symptom that my watchfull eyes espied,
My heart with thousand Torments crucify'd.

When scarlet seas' did double dye thy face,
Mine pal'd to see how strong thy feaver was,
How great a Tyrant to usurp that place.

When thou grewst pale I even sunk for fear
Lest Death's cold ashes had been strowed there,
Or that, that Tyrant came to dominere.

When thou did'st sound, my heart was made a prize,
To pallid fear, nor could it ever rise,
Till hope to raise it sprouted from thine eyes.

My heart yet trembles, now I think upon't,
The thoughts oft with pale sadness paint my front:
Thou liv'st: such mercies e're forget I wo'nt.

My Muse did languish by a Sympathy,
As if her life depended had on thee,
It seems thine was her numbers Treasurie.

Distress'd she sat in Mourning Liveries,
Whilst the clear Fountaines of her crystal eyes,
Wept in sotf Tears most dolefull Elegies.

As thy cheeks Hyacinths o're come their snows,
As vanquish'd are their Lillies, by the Rose,
So on my muse new heat and vigor grows.

This Day mythought thy starry orbs were prest
With wonted lustre: and new beauties drest
Thy Face: which gave flames to my Muses breast.

Inspired thus she now begins to sing,
New ardors now her spritely Numbers wing,
And as thy health doth, so her raptures spring.

Both consecrated are my Muse, and I,
To sing the bliss of thy recovery,
And chaunt Iö Paeans untill we dye.

May Heav'n as he has rais'd thee from the Dead,
(Whose Name be blest!) his mighty bucklar spread,
From Death's fell arrows to defend thy Head.

Daine but to cherish (with a gentle glance
Of Favour shot from thy bright countenance)
These lines, and it my Numbers will advance.

Such mercies cannot but my spirits raise,
In highest Notes to chaunt my sprightly lays,
And for thy Health to Heav'n sing songs of prayse.