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Richard Lovelace - A Black Patch On Lucasta`s Face
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Dull as I was, to think that a court fly
            Presum`d so neer her eye;
            When `twas th` industrious bee
        Mistook her glorious face for paradise,
To summe up all his chymistry of spice;
  With a brave pride and honour led,
  Neer both her suns he makes his bed,
And, though a spark, struggles to rise as red.
            Then aemulates the gay
              Daughter of day;
      Acts the romantick phoenix` fate,
  When now, with all his sweets lay`d out in state,
    LUCASTA scatters but one heat,
And all the aromatick pills do sweat,
And gums calcin`d themselves to powder beat,
          Which a fresh gale of air
          Conveys into her hair;
          Then chaft, he`s set on fire,
And in these holy flames doth glad expire;
      And that black marble tablet there
        So neer her either sphere
      Was plac`d; nor foyl, nor ornament,
But the sweet little bee`s large monument.
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