Richard Lovelace (1618-1657 / London / England)
A Lady With A Falcon On Her Fist. To The Honourable My Cousin A[nne] L[ovelace]
This Queen of Prey (now prey to you),
Fast to that pirch of ivory
In silver chaines and silken clue,
Hath now made full thy victory:
The swelling admirall of the dread
Cold deepe, burnt in thy flames, oh faire!
Wast not enough, but thou must lead
Bound, too, the Princesse of the aire?
Unarm'd of wings and scaly oare,
Unhappy crawler on the land,
To what heav'n fly'st? div'st to what shoare,
That her brave eyes do not command?
Ascend the chariot of the Sun
From her bright pow'r to shelter thee:
Her captive (foole) outgases him;
Ah, what lost wretches then are we!
Now, proud usurpers on the right
Of sacred beauty, heare your dombe;
Recant your sex, your mastry, might;
Lower you cannot be or'ecome:
Repent, ye er'e nam'd he or head,
For y' are in falcon's monarchy,
And in that just dominion bred,
In which the nobler is the shee.
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