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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=345251" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>Upon A Little Lady</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0">Under the Discipline of an Excellent Person.<br>I.<br>How comes the Day orecast? the Flaming Sun<br>Darkn'd at Noon, as if his Course were run?<br>He never rose more proud, more glad, more gay,<br>Ne're courted Daphne with a brighter Ray!<br>And now in Clouds he wraps his Head,<br>As if not Daphne, but himself were dead!<br>And all the little Winged Troop<br>Forbear to sing, and sit and droop;<br>The Flowers do languish on their Beds,<br>And fading hang their Mourning Heads;<br>The little Cupids discontented, shew,<br>In Grief and Rage one breaks his Bow,<br>An other tares his Cheeks and Haire,<br>A third sits blubring in Despaire,</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Confessing though, in Love, he be,<br>A Powerful, Dreadful Deitie,<br>A Child, in Wrath, can do as much as he!<br>Whence is this Evil hurl'd,<br>On all the sweetness of the World?<br>Among those Things with Beauty shine,<br>(Both Humane natures, and Divine)<br>There was not so much sorrow spi'd,<br>No, not that Day the sweet Adonis died!</div><div style="margin:10px 0">II.<br>Ambitious both to know the Ill, and to partake,<br>The little Weeping Gods I thus bespake.<br>Ye Noblest Pow'rs and Gentlest that Above,<br>Govern us Men, but govern still with Love,<br>Vouchsafe to tell, what can that Sorrow be,<br>Disorders Heaven, and wounds a Deitie.<br>My Prayer not spoken out,<br>One of the Winged Rout,<br>With Indignation great,<br>Sprung from his Airie-Seat,<br>And mounting to a Higher Cloud,<br>With Thunder, or a Voice as loud</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Cried, Mortal there, there seek the Grief o'th' Gods,<br>Where thou findst Plagues, and their revengeful Rods!<br>And in the Instant that the Thing was meant,<br>He bent his Bow, his Arrow plac't, and to the mark it sent!<br>I follow'd with my watchful Eye,<br>To the Place where the Shaft did flie,<br>But O unheard-of Prodigy.<br>It was retorted back again,<br>And he that sent it, felt the pain,<br>Alas! I think the little God was therewith slain!<br>But wanton Darts ne're pierce where Honours found,<br>And those that shoot them, do their own Breasts wound.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">III.<br>The Place from which the Arrow did return,<br>Swifter then sent, and with the speed did burn,<br>Was a Proud Pile which Marble Columnes bare,<br>Tarrast beneath, and open to the Aire,<br>On either side, Cords of wove Gold did tie<br>A purfl'd Curtain, hanging from on high,<br>To clear the Prospect of the stately Bower,<br>And boast the Owners Dignity and Power!<br>This shew'd the Scene from whence Loves grief arose,<br>And Heaven and Nature both did discompose,</div><div style="margin:10px 0">A little Nymph whose Limbs divinely bright,<br>Lay like a Body of Collected Light,<br>But not to Love and Courtship so disclos'd,<br>But to the Rigour of a Dame oppos'd,<br>Who instant on the Faire with Words and Blows,<br>Now chastens Error, and now Virtue shews.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">IV.<br>But O thou no less Blind,<br>Than Wild and Savage Mind,<br>Who Discipline dar'st name,<br>Thy Outrage and thy shame,<br>And hop'st a Radiant Crown to get<br>All Stars and Glory to thy Head made fit,<br>Know that this Curse alone shall Serpent-like incircle it!<br>May'st thou henceforth, be ever seen to stand,<br>Grasping a Scourge of Vipers in thy Hand,<br>Thy Hand, that Furie like—But see!<br>By Apollos Sacred Tree,<br>By his ever Tuneful Lyre,<br>And his bright Image the Eternal Fire,<br>Eudoras she has done this Deed<br>And made the World thus in its Darling bleed!</div><div style="margin:10px 0">I know the Cruel Dame,<br>Too well instructed by my Flame!<br>But see her shape! But see her Face!<br>In her Temple such is Diana's Grace!<br>Behold her Lute upon the Pavement lies,<br>When Beautie's wrong'd, no wonder Musick dies!</div><div style="margin:10px 0">V.<br>What blood of Centaurs did thy Bosom warme,<br>And boyle the Balsome there up to a Storme?<br>Nay Balsome flow'd not with so soft a Floud,<br>As thy Thoughts Evenly Virtuous, Mildly Good!<br>How could thy Skilful and Harmonious Hand,<br>That Rage of Seas, and People could command,<br>And calme Diseases with the Charming strings,<br>Such Discords make in the whole Name of Things?<br>But now I see the Root of thy Rash Pride,<br>Because thou didst Excel the World beside,<br>And it in Beauty and in Fame out-shine,<br>Thou would'st compare thy self to things Divine!<br>And 'bove thy Standard what thou there didst see,<br>Thou didst Condemn, because 'twas unlike thee,<br>And punisht in the Lady as unfit,<br>What Bloomings were of a Diviner Wit.<br>Divine she is, or else Divine must be,<br>A Borne or else a Growing Deitie!</div><div style="margin:10px 0">VI.<br>While thus I did exclaime,<br>And wildly rage and blame,<br>Behold the Sylvan-Quire <br>Did all at one conspire,<br>With shrill and cheerful Throats,<br>T'assume their chirping Notes;<br>The Heav'ns refulgent Eye<br>Dance't in the clear'd-up Skie,<br>And so triumphant shon,<br>As seven-days Beams he had on!<br>The little Loves burn'd with nobler fier<br>Each chang'd his wanton Bow, and took a Lyre,<br>Singing chast Aires unto the tuneful strings,<br>And time'd soft Musick with their downy Wings.<br>I turn'd the little Nymph to view,<br>She singing and did smiling shew;<br>Eudora led a heav'nly strain,<br>Her Angels Voice did eccho it again!</div><div style="margin:10px 0">I then decreed no Sacriledge was wrought,<br>But neerer Heav'n this Piece of Heaven was brought.<br>She also brighter seem'd, than she had been,<br>Vertue darts forth a Light'ning 'bove the Skin.<br>Eudora also shew'd as heretofore,<br>When her soft Graces I did first adore.<br>I saw, what one did Nobly Will,<br>The other sweetly did fulfil;<br>Their Actions all harmoniously did sute,<br>And she had only tun'd the Lady like her Lute.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br /></a><br />poem by <a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/by.php?a=Anne+Killigrew">Anne Killigrew</a><div class=q>
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I.
How comes the Day orecast? the Flaming Sun
Darkn'd at Noon, as if his Course were run?
He never rose more proud, more glad, more gay,
Ne're courted Daphne with a brighter Ray!
And now in Clouds he wr..."></div>
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