Ala Malade.

AH lovely Amoret, the care
Of all that know what's good or fair,
Is Heaven become our Rival too?
Had the rich gifts conferr'd on you,
So ample thence the common end
Of giving Lovers, to pretend.
Hence to this pining sickness (meant
To weary thee to a consent
Of leaving us) no power is given,
Thy Beauties to impair; for Heaven
Sollicites thee with such a care,
As Roses from their stalks we tear,
When we would still preserve them new,
And fresh as on the bush they grew.
With such a Grace you entertain,
And look with such contempt on pain,
That languishing you conquer more,
And wound us deeper than before.
So lightnings which in storms appear▪
Scorch more than when the Skies are clear.
And as pale sickness does invade
Your frailer part, the breaches made
In that fair Lodging, still more clear
Make the bright guest your soul, appear.
So Nymphs o're pathless Mountains born,
Their light Robes by the Brambles torn
From their fair Limbs, exposing new
And unknown Beauties to the view
Of following gods, increase their flame,
And haste to catch the flying Game.