2 Peace, Chloris! peace! or singing die,
That together you and I
To heaven may go;
For all we know
Of what the blessed do above,
Is, that they sing, and that they love.
1 Go, lovely Rose!
Tell her that wastes her time and me,
That now she knows,
When I resemble her to thee,
How sweet and fair she seems to be.
2 Tell her that’s young,
And shuns to have her graces spied,
That hadst thou sprung
In deserts, where no men abide,
Thou must have uncommended died.
3 Small is the worth
Of beauty from the light retired;
Bid her come forth,
Suffer herself to be desired,
And not blush so to be admired.
4 Then die! that she
The common fate of all things rare
May read in thee;
How small a part of time they share
That are so wondrous sweet and fair!
This happy day two lights are seen,
A glorious saint, a matchless queen;
Both named alike, both crown’d appear,
The saint above, th’Infanta here.
May all those years which Catherine
The martyr did for heaven resign,
Be added to the line
Of your bless’d life among us here!
For all the pains that she did feel,
And all the torments of her wheel,
May you as many pleasures share!
May heaven itself content
With Catherine the Saint!
Without appearing old,
An hundred times may you,
With eyes as bright as now,
This welcome day behold!
 ‘Matchless queen’: Queen Catherine
was born on the day set apart in
the calendar for the commemoration of the martyrdom of St.
1 Say, lovely dream! where couldst thou find
Shades to counterfeit that face?
Colours of this glorious kind
Come not from any mortal place.
2 In heaven itself thou sure wert dress’d
With that angel-like disguise:
Thus deluded am I bless’d,
And see my joy with closed eyes.
3 But, ah! this image is too kind
To be other than a dream;
Cruel Saccharissa’s mind
Never put on that sweet extreme!
4 Fair dream! if thou intend’st me grace,
Change that heavenly face of thine;
Paint despised love in thy face,
And make it to appear like mine.
5 Pale, wan, and meagre let it look,
With a pity-moving shape,
Such as wander by the brook
Of Lethe, or from graves escape.
6 Then to that matchless nymph appear,
In whose shape thou shinest so;
Softly in her sleeping ear,
With humble words, express my woe.
7 Perhaps from greatness, state, and pride,
Thus surprised she may fall;
Sleep does disproportion hide,
And, death resembling, equals all.