A Letter to Daphnis, at London
Sure of successe, to you I boldly write,
Whilst Loue, does euery tender line endite.
Loue, who is justly President of verse,
Which all his Seruants write, or else rehearse.
Phoebus, howe're mistaken Poets dream,
N'er us'd a Verse, 'til Loue became his theam,
To his stray'd Son, still as his passion rose
He rais'd his hasty voyce, in clamerous prose,
But when in Daphne, he wou'd loue inspire,
He woo'd in verse, sett to his Siluer Lyre,
In mouing Verse, that did* her heart assail,
And cou'd on all, but Chastity prevail.
The Trojan Prince, did pow'r full numbers joyn,
To sing of War, but Loue was the design,
And sleeping Troy, again in flames was drest,
To raise the like, in pittying Dido's breast.
Loue, without poetrys refining aid,
Is a dull bargain, and but coursely made;
Nor e're cou'd Poetry, successfull proue
Or toutche the Soul, but when the sence was Loue.
Oh! cou'd they both, in absence now impart
Skill to my hand, but to describe my heart,
Then shou'd you see, impatient of your stay,
Soft hopes contend, with fears of sad delay.
Loue, in a thousand pleasing motions, there,
And lively images of You, appear.
But since the thoughts, of a poetick mind,
Will n'er be half [sic], to sylables [sic] confind
And whilst to fix, what is conceav'd we try,
The purer parts, evaporate and dye.
You must perform, thwat they want force to doe,
And think what your Ardelia** thinks of you.
Finch sends her husband a love poem; they are likened to Apollo and Daphne, Aeneas and Dido. Although his mission has not been "successful" (her opening line identifies his hesitancy with hers), Anne wants Heneage to know that she remains faithful, waits for him to return; how strongly she still loves him.
This is a wonderful poem. It is copied out in Heneage's hand.