Page:Poems of Anne Countess of Winchilsea 1903.djvu/157

Rh  To thee, great Monark, I submitt, Thy Sables, and thy Cypresse bring, I own thy Pow'r, I own thee King, Thy title, in my heart is writt, And 'till that breaks, I ne'r shall freedom gett. Forc'd smiles, thy rigour will allow, And whilst thy seat is in the soul, And there, all mirth thou doest controul, Thou can'st admitt to outward show, The smooth appearance, and disembl'd brow.  ON AFF[L]ICTION Wellcome, what e're my tender flesh may say, Welcome affliction, to my reason, still; Though hard, and ruged on that rock I lay A sure foundation, which if rais'd with skill, Shall compasse Babel's aim, and reach th' Almighty's hill. Wellcome the rod, that does adoption shew, The cup, whose wholsome dregs are giv'n me here ; There is a day behind, if God be true, When all these Clouds shall passe, & heav'n be clear, When those whom most they shade, shall shine most glorious there. Affliction is the line, which every Saint Is measured by, his stature taken right; So much itt shrinks, as they repine or faint, But if their faith and Courage stand upright, By that is made the Crown, and the full robe of light.  A LETTER TO DAFNIS APRIL : 2 1685 This to the Crown, and blessing of my life, The much lov'd husband, of a happy wife. To him, whose constant passion found the art 