Poems (1686) — Love, the Soul of Poetry

Come Flatter then, or Chide my Grief;

Catch my last Words, and call me Fool;

Or say, she Loves, for my Relief;

My Passion either sooth, or School.

Love, the Soul of Poetry.

When first _Alexis_ did in Verse delight, His Muse in Low, but Graceful Numbers walk't, And now and then a little Proudly stalk't;

But never aim'd at any noble Flight: The Herds, the Groves, the gentle purling Streams, Adorn'd his Song, and were his highest Theams.

But Love these Thoughts, like Mists, did soon disperse, Enlarg'd his Fancy, and set free his Muse, Biding him more Illustrious Subjects choose;

The Acts of Gods, and God-like Men reherse.

From thence new Raptures did his Breast inspire, His scarce Warm-Heart converted was to Fire.