The Mirror. 1679

GOod Fortune! now at last be fond;
And give me that bright Diamond
O'th' great Mogul: when it appears,
Sun-like, it routs his lesser Stars.
Here Phoebus fixing all his Rays,
Made it but one compacted Blaze.
It is so weighty, that it's said
To be by Ounce, not Caracts, weigh'd.
As tho to lessen Pride, 'twas meant
For Burden, not for Ornament.

Had I this Gemm (your Merits due)
It I would sacrifice to you.
Pure Incense! where no Smoke aspires,
Kindling it self with native fires.
But now, alas! I have not time
To post to so remote a Clime!
Nay, when at Agra, or Lahore,
May be, the sullen Emperour
Would keep his Diamond, I'le not try;
And yet speed better, tho more nigh.

Presents should hold proportion due
To th' Persons they are offer'd to.
And mine's a Mirrour darting rayes,
That Diamonds, and Sun out-blaze.
The Chrystal I this Winter chose
From drops of Helicon new froze.
The Glass, I, with some Art design'd;
With Truth instead of Silver lin'd.
A Lining! that rich Tissue shames;
Brighter than are Meridian beams.
So heav'nly rich! to make em shine
It does the Vests of Cherubs line.

Being thus prepar'd, It shows to you
An Object worthy of your view:
Wit, Greatness, Virtue, Beauty, Worth,
At once in glorious Crouds break forth:
And from two shining Casements fly:
Like Angels shooting through the Skie.
Whose Rosie-blood, Dame Nature strains
Through Lilly-cheeks, and Violet-veins.
Whose Scarlet, Lancaster once wore,
His Rose dipt in that precious store,
Turn'd Red, a Damask-rose before.
Her whom I faintly here express,
Your modesty denies to ghess.
Untill my Glass, being heav'nly true,
Reflects your self, and speaks it you.