BEN JONSON.

Dear Lady! oft I meditate on thee,

Noblest companion and fit peer of him

Whom envious years, in high prosperity,

Could blemish least, nor aught the lustre dim

Of that fair-fashioned native piety

Embosomed in the soul that smiles on Fate,

And held by him and thee inviolate,—

Fountain of youth, still sparkling o’ er the brim.

Then I recall thy salient quick wit,

Its arrowy quiver and its supple bow,—

Huntress of wrong! right well thy arrows hit,

Though from the wound thou see’ st the red drops flow:

I much admire that dexterous archery,

And pray that sinners may thy target be.