Red Canary. 1677

TH' inspired few, whose glowing breasts
Refin'd 'em for Apollo's Priests;
When mystick heat their bloods did fire,
Themselves did from themselves retire.
Banisht the mortal from their breast,
That Presence-Chamber richly drest;
The glorious Furniture all shin'd;
For with Apollo's self 'twas lin'd.
What charming words might needs fume hence,
Mixt with that neigh'bring Influence,
Whose thickning breath appear'd to be
A Chariot for the Deity.
Were my Productions but so blest,
Your Ladiship might be exprest.
But Poetsnow heed no such fires;
Yet still some Deity inspires.
Venus or Bacchus heightens sence,
Tho with malignant influence.
Those Daemons now profane our Groves
With vain, or with dishonest loves;
Making a Desart of the place,
With'ring the Mirtles and the Bays:
The Fiend thus, with contagious vice,
Blasted the Trees of Paradice.
But, Madam, your illustrious name
Is both my Influence and Theme;
Refining all my Smoak to flame.
Hence baffled Poetry may thrive,
And Oracles again revive.
Its clouded beams may brighter rise,
Kindled by th' Sun-shine of your eyes,
As Persians fire their Sacrifice.
'Till th' Muses have that bliss obtain'd,
They're like fall'n Stars in darkness chain'd.
Then farewel Poetry!

—But stay—
Venus may prove Vrania.
She may injoy that happy fate,
If she your virtues imitate.
Her Chariot then, through th' heav'nly lawn,
By Doves, not Sparrows will be drawn:
And virtuous Love henceforward boast,
You have restor'd what Venus lost.

But, Madam, 'tis too sad a truth,
Bacchus is so debauch'd a youth;
That Lees as soon will leave his Wine,
As his corruptions he'll refine.
Ill humours soonest are withstood,
And cured best by letting blood:
That hot-braind God, with fumes opprest,
Bleeds here some ounces of his best.
His Heart-blood-drops he offers here
To you his fair Deliverer;
The Stoick so himself resign'd,
(Hence owning the eternal mind.)
And thus his best Drops did prefer
To Iove, the great Deliverer.

This my Oblation may attone
For all offences he has done.
If in your Favour it finds place,
The Reprobate recovers Grace.
Your influence then must be divine;
Since, Madam, it can thus refine
The dregs of Love, of Wit, of Wine.