WILLIAM CARTWRIGHT. TO MR. W. B. AT THE BIRTH OF HIS FIRST CHILD. Y'ARE now transcrib'd, and publike view And these delights he yields you now, But hereafter when his force Shall wield the rattle and the horse! "Twill ravish the delighted sense To view these sports of innocence, These hopeful cradles promise such Future goodness, and so much, That they prevent my prayers, and I I wish religion timely be I wish him good and constant health, When they name love, a peece of land. Only call in, not dare to rest. A collision of a vowel left out in scanning. LOVE'S DARTS. WHERE is that learned wretch that knows What are those darts the veyl'd god throws: O let him tell me ere I dye When 'twas he saw or heard them fly; Whether the sparrow's plumes, or dove's, I will annoint and keep them warm, Fond that I am to aske! who ere Not aire with so much art; And snows on streams, we may So hopeless I must now endure, A sudden fire of blushes shed Of motion, limbs, and face; These misconceits entitles darts, But as the feathers in the wing, Till we that make them darts; We turn those lights to fires. TO THE MEMORY OF THE MOST VERTUOUS WHO DYED OF A FEVER. THOU whitest soul, thou thine own day, Fly to thy native seat, Make thy disease which would destroy thee And while thou soar'st and leav'st us here beneath, Wee'l think it thy translation, not thy death. |