Fortune, this is the reason I refuse
Thy wealth; it puts my books all out of use.
'Tis poverty that makes me wise; my mind
Is big with speculation, when I find
My purse as Randolph's was, and I confess
There is no blessing to an emptiness!
The species of all things to me resort
And dwell then in my breast, as in their port.
Then leave to court me with thy hated store;
Thou giv'st me that, to rob my soul of more.

TO I. MORGAN OF WHITEHALL, ESQ., UPON HIS SUDDEN JOURNEY AND SUCCEEDING
MARRIAGE.

So from our cold, rude world, which all things tires,
To his warm Indies the bright sun retires.
Where, in those provinces of gold and spice,
Perfumes his progress, pleasures fill his eyes,
Which, so refresh'd, in their return convey
Fire into rubies, into crystals, day;
And prove, that light in kinder climates can
Work more on senseless stones, than here on man.
But you, like one ordain'd to shine, take in
Both light and heat, can love and wisdom spin
Into one thread, and with that firmly tie
The same bright blessings on posterity:
Which so entail'd, like jewels of the crown,
Shall, with your name, descend still to your own.
When I am dead, and malice or neglect
The worst they can upon my dust reflect;
--For poets yet have left no names, but such
As men have envied or despis'd too much--
You above both--and what state more excels,
Since a just fame like health, nor wants, nor swells?--
To after ages shall remain entire,
And shine still spotless, like your planet's fire.
No single lustre neither; the access
Of your fair love will yours adorn and bless;
Till, from that bright conjunction, men may view
A constellation circling her and you.
So two sweet rose-buds from their virgin-beds
First peep and blush, then kiss and couple heads,
Till yearly blessings so increase their store,
Those two can number two-and-twenty more,
And the fair bank--by Heav'n's free bounty crown'd--
With choice of sweets and beauties doth abound,
Till Time, which families, like flowers, far spreads,
Gives them for garlands to the best of heads.
Then late posterity--if chance, or some
Weak echo, almost quite expir'd and dumb,
Shall tell them who the poet was, and how
He liv'd and lov'd thee too, which thou dost know--
Straight to my gra