The Gallery

Chlora, come view my soul, and tell Whether I have contrived it well: Now all its several lodgings lie, Composed into one gallery, And the great arras-hangings, made Of various facings, by are laid, That, for all furniture, you‘ll find Only your picture in my mind.

Here thou art painted in the dress Of an inhuman murderess; Examining upon our hearts, (Thy fertile shop of cruel arts,) Engines more keen than ever yet Adornèd tryant‘s cabinet, Of which the most tormenting are, Black eyes, red lips, and curlèd hair.

But, on the other side, thou‘rt drawn, Like to Aurora in the dawn; When in the east she slumbering lies, And stretches out her milky thighs, While all the morning quire does sing, And manna falls and roses spring, And, at thy feet, the wooing doves Sit perfecting their harmless loves.

Like an enchantress here thou show‘st, Vexing thy restless lover's ghost; And, by a light obscure, dost rave Over his entrails, in the cave, Divining thence, with horrid care, How long thou shalt continue fair; And (when informed) them throw‘st away To be the greedy vulture's prey.

But, against that, thou sitt‘st afloat, Like Venus in her pearly boat; The halcyons, calming all that‘s nigh, Betwixt the air and water fly; Or, if some rolling wave appears, A mass of ambergris it bears, Nor blows more wind than what may well Convoy the perfume to the smell.

These pictures, and a thousand more, Of thee, my gallery doth store, In all the forms thou canst invent, Either to please me, or torment; For thou alone, to people me, Art grown a numerous colony, And a collection choicer far Than or Whitehall‘s, or Mantua‘s were.

But of these pictures, and the rest, That at the entrance likes me best, Where the same posture and the look Remains with which I first was took; A tender shepherdess, whose hair Hangs loosely playing in the air, Transplanting flowers from the green hill, To crown her head and bosom fill.