Beauty, thy Conquests still are made
Over the Vigorous more than the Decay'd;
And chiefly o're those of the Martial Trade;
And whom thou conquer'st still thou keep'st in thrall,
Untill you both together fall,
Whereas of all the Conquerours, how few
Know how to keep what they subdue?
Nay, even froward Age subdues thee too.
Thy Power, Beauty, has no bounds,
All sorts of men it equally confounds,
The young and old does both enslave,
The proud, meek, humble, and the brave,
And if it wounds, it only is to save.

Beauty, thou active, passive good!
Who both enflam'st and cool'st our Blood!
Thou glorious Flow'r, whose sov'reign juyce
Does wonderful Effects produce,
Who, Scorpion-like, do'st with thee bring
The Balm that cures thy deadly sting.
What pity 'tis the fairest Plant
That ever Heaven made
Should ever ever fade,
Yet Beauty we shall never want:
For she has off-sets of her own,
Which e're she dyes will be as fairly blown.
And though they blossom in variety,
Yet still new Beauties will descry,

Beauty, Love's Friend, who help'st him to a Throne,
By Wisdom Deify'd, to whom alone
Thy Excellence is known,
And ne're neglected but by those have none;
Thou noble Coyn, by no false sleight allay'd,
By whom we Lovers Militant are paid,
True to the Touch, and ever best
When thou art brought unto the Test,
And who do'st still of higher value prove.
As deeper thou art search'd by Love.
He who allows thee only in the Light
Is there mistaken quite,
For there we only see the outer skin,
When the Perfection lies within;

Beauty ! thou Master-piece of Heav'ns best skill,
Who in all shapes and lights art Beauty still,
And whether black, or brown, tawny, or white,
Still strik'st with wonder every judging sight;
Thou tryumph, which dost entertain the Eye
With Admirations full variety.
Who, though thou variest here and there,
And trick'st thy self in various colour'd hair,
And though with several washes Nature has
Thought fit thy several Lineaments to grace,
Yet Beauty still we must acknowledge thee,
Whatever thy Complexion be.

Let each religious Soule then rise
To offer his best sacrifice,
And on the wings of pray'r and praise
His gratefull heart to Heav'n raise;
For this, that in a stable lyes,
This poor neglected babe is hee,
Hell and death that must controule,
And speake the blessed Word, Be free
To every true beleiving Soule:
Death has noe sting, nor Hell noe prize

Att th' teeming of this blessed wombe
All Nature is one joy become;
The Fire, the Earth, the Sea, and Ayre,
The great Salvation doe declare;
The Mountaines skipp with joyes excesse,
The ocean's briny billowes swell
O're the surface of their lands,
And at this blessed Miracle
Floods doe clap their liquid hands,
Joyes inundation to expresse;

Riding upon the morning's wings,
The joyfull Aire Salvation sings,
Peace upon earth, tow'rds men good will,
Echo's from every vale and hill;
For why the Prince of Peace is come,
The glorious infant, who this morne
By a strange misterious birth
Was of his Virgin Mother borne,
To redeem the seed of Earth
From foule rebellion's heavy Doome.

Rise Shepheards, leave your flockes, and run,
The Soule's great Shepheard now is come;
O wing your tardy feet, and fly
To greet this Dawning Majesty:
A glorious starr shines in the East,
To guide you to the Sacred place,
Where the blessed babe of joy,
Wrap't in his holy Father's grace,
Comes the serpent to destroy,
That lurkes in ev'ry humaine brest.

Rise , happy Mortalls, from your sleep,
Bright Phospher now begins to peep,
In such apparell as ne're drest
The proudest day-breake of the East:
Death's Sable Curtain 'gins disperse,
And now the blessed morne appeares,
Which has long'd and pray'd for been
Soe many Centuries of yeares,
To defray th' arreare of Sinn.
Now through the joyfull universe

If you have leisure, glance at this quatrain;
You busy men shirk labour when you can,
So skip the rest and I shall not complain;
You skip this too? That is the wiser plan.