To the Right Hon. my Lady Anne Lovelace
To the richest Treasury
That e’er fill’d ambitious eye;
To the faire bright Magazin
Hath impoverisht Love’s Queen;
To th’ Exchequer of all honour
(All take pensions but from her);
To the taper of the thore
Which the god himselfe but bore;
To the Sea of Chaste Delight;
Let me cast the Drop I write.
And as at Loretto’s shrine
Caesar shovels in his mine,
Th’ Empres spreads her carkanets,
The lords submit their coronets,
Knights their chased armes hang by,
Maids diamond-ruby fancies tye;
Whilst from the pilgrim she wears
One poore false pearl, but ten true tears:
So among the Orient prize,
(Saphyr-onyx eulogies)
Offer’d up unto your fame,
Take my garnet-dublet name,
And vouchsafe 'midst those rich joyes
(With devotion) these toyes.
