156. TO JULIA.

Permit me, Julia, now to go away; Or by thy love decree me here to stay. If thou wilt say that I shall live with thee, Here shall my endless tabernacle be: If not, as banish'd, I will live alone There where no language ever yet was known.

157. ON HIMSELF.

Love-sick I am, and must endure A desperate grief, that finds no cure. Ah me! I try; and trying, prove No herbs have power to cure love. Only one sovereign salve I know, And that is death, the end of woe.

158. VIRTUE IS SENSIBLE OF SUFFERING.

Though a wise man all pressures can sustain, His virtue still is sensible of pain: Large shoulders though he has, and well can bear, He feels when packs do pinch him, and the where.

159. THE CRUEL MAID.

And cruel maid, because I see You scornful of my love and me, I'll trouble you no more; but go My way where you shall never know What is become of me: there I Will find me out a path to die, Or learn some way how to forget You and your name for ever: yet, Ere I go hence, know this from me, What will, in time, your fortune be: This to your coyness I will tell, And, having spoke it once, farewell. The lily will not long endure, Nor the snow continue pure; The rose, the violet, one day, See, both these lady-flowers decay: And you must fade as well as they. And it may chance that Love may turn, And, like to mine, make your heart burn And weep to see't; yet this thing do, That my last vow commends to you: When you shall see that I am dead, For pity let a tear be shed; And, with your mantle o'er me cast, Give my cold lips a kiss at last: If twice you kiss you need not fear That I shall stir or live more here. Next, hollow out a tomb to cover Me—me, the most despised lover, And write thereon: This, reader, know: Love kill'd this man. No more, but so.

160. TO DIANEME.

Sweet, be not proud of those two eyes Which, starlike, sparkle in their skies; Nor be you proud that you can see All hearts your captives, yours yet free; Be you not proud of that rich hair Which wantons with the love-sick air; Whenas that ruby which you wear, Sunk from the tip of your soft ear, Will last to be a precious stone When all your world of beauty's gone.

161. TO THE KING, TO CURE THE EVIL.

To find that tree of life whose fruits did feed And leaves did heal all sick of human seed: To find Bethesda and an angel there Stirring the waters, I am come; and here, At last, I find (after my much to do) The tree, Bethesda and the angel too: And all in your blest hand, which has the powers Of all those suppling-healing herbs and flowers. To that soft charm, that spell, that magic bough, That high enchantment, I betake me now, And to that hand (the branch of heaven's fair tree), I kneel for help; O! lay that hand on me, Adored Caesar! and my faith is such I shall be heal'd if that my king but touch. The evil is not yours: my sorrow sings, "Mine is the evil, but the cure the king's".

162. HIS MISERY IN A MISTRESS.

Water, water I espy; Come and cool ye, all who fry In your loves; but none as I.

Though a thousand showers be Still a-falling, yet I see Not one drop to light on me.

Happy you who can have seas For to quench ye, or some ease From your kinder mistresses.

I have one, and she alone, Of a thousand thousand known, Dead to all compassion.

Such an one as will repeat Both the cause and make the heat More by provocation great.

Gentle friends, though I despair Of my cure, do you beware Of those girls which cruel are.

164. TO A GENTLEWOMAN OBJECTING TO HIM HIS GRAY HAIRS.

Am I despised because you say, And I dare swear, that I am gray? Know, lady, you have but your day: And time will come when you shall wear Such frost and snow upon your hair; And when (though long, it comes to pass) You question with your looking-glass; And in that sincere crystal seek, But find no rose-bud in your cheek: Nor any bed to give the show Where such a rare carnation grew. Ah! then too late, close in your chamber keeping, It will be told That you are old, By those true tears y'are weeping.

165. TO CEDARS.

If 'mongst my many poems I can see One only worthy to be wash'd by thee, I live for ever, let the rest all lie In dens of darkness or condemn'd to die.

Cedars, oil of cedar was used for preserving manuscripts (carmina linenda cedro. Hor. Ars Poet., 331.)

166. UPON CUPID.

Love like a gipsy lately came, And did me much importune To see my hand, that by the same He might foretell my fortune.

He saw my palm, and then, said he, I tell thee by this score here, That thou within few months shalt be The youthful Prince d'Amour here.

I smil'd, and bade him once more prove, And by some cross-line show it, That I could ne'er be prince of love, Though here the princely poet.

167. HOW PRIMROSES CAME GREEN.

Virgins, time-past, known were these, Troubled with green-sicknesses: Turn'd to flowers, still the hue, Sickly girls, they bear of you.

168. TO JOS., LORD BISHOP OF EXETER.

Whom should I fear to write to if I can Stand before you, my learn'd diocesan? And never show blood-guiltiness or fear To see my lines excathedrated here. Since none so good are but you may condemn, Or here so bad but you may pardon them. If then, my lord, to sanctify my muse One only poem out of all you'll choose, And mark it for a rapture nobly writ, 'Tis good confirm'd, for you have bishop'd it.

Blood-guiltiness, guilt betrayed by blushing; cp. 837. Excathedrated, condemned ex cathedra.

169. UPON A BLACK TWIST ROUNDING THE ARM OF THE COUNTESS OF CARLISLE.

I saw about her spotless wrist, Of blackest silk, a curious twist; Which, circumvolving gently, there Enthrall'd her arm as prisoner. Dark was the jail, but as if light Had met t'engender with the night; Or so as darkness made a stay To show at once both night and day. One fancy more! but if there be Such freedom in captivity, I beg of Love that ever I May in like chains of darkness lie.

170. ON HIMSELF.

I fear no earthly powers, But care for crowns of flowers; And love to have my beard With wine and oil besmear'd. This day I'll drown all sorrow: Who knows to live to-morrow?

172. A RING PRESENTED TO JULIA.

Julia, I bring To thee this ring, Made for thy finger fit; To show by this That our love is (Or should be) like to it.

Close though it be The joint is free; So, when love's yoke is on, It must not gall, Or fret at all With hard oppression.

But it must play Still either way, And be, too, such a yoke As not too wide To overslide, Or be so strait to choke.

So we who bear This beam must rear Ourselves to such a height As that the stay Of either may Create the burden light.

And as this round Is nowhere found To flaw, or else to sever: So let our love As endless prove, And pure as gold for ever.

173. TO THE DETRACTOR.

Where others love and praise my verses, still Thy long black thumb-nail marks them out for ill: A fellon take it, or some whitflaw come For to unslate or to untile that thumb! But cry thee mercy: exercise thy nails To scratch or claw, so that thy tongue not rails: Some numbers prurient are, and some of these Are wanton with their itch; scratch, and 'twill please.

Fellon, a sore, especially in the finger. Whitflaw, or whitlow.

174. UPON THE SAME.

I ask'd thee oft what poets thou hast read, And lik'st the best. Still thou reply'st: The dead. I shall, ere long, with green turfs cover'd be; Then sure thou'lt like or thou wilt envy me.

175. JULIA'S PETTICOAT.

Thy azure robe I did behold As airy as the leaves of gold, Which, erring here, and wandering there, Pleas'd with transgression ev'rywhere: Sometimes 'twould pant, and sigh, and heave, As if to stir it scarce had leave: But, having got it, thereupon 'Twould make a brave expansion. And pounc'd with stars it showed to me Like a celestial canopy. Sometimes 'twould blaze, and then abate, Like to a flame grown moderate: Sometimes away 'twould wildly fling, Then to thy thighs so closely cling That some conceit did melt me down As lovers fall into a swoon: And, all confus'd, I there did lie Drown'd in delights, but could not die. That leading cloud I follow'd still, Hoping t' have seen of it my fill; But ah! I could not: should it move To life eternal, I could love.

Pounc'd, sprinkled.

176. TO MUSIC.

Begin to charm, and, as thou strok'st mine ears With thy enchantment, melt me into tears. Then let thy active hand scud o'er thy lyre, And make my spirits frantic with the fire. That done, sink down into a silvery strain, And make me smooth as balm and oil again.

177. DISTRUST.

To safeguard man from wrongs, there nothing must Be truer to him than a wise distrust. And to thyself be best this sentence known: Hear all men speak, but credit few or none.

178. CORINNA'S GOING A-MAYING.

Get up, get up for shame, the blooming morn Upon her wings presents the god unshorn. See how Aurora throws her fair Fresh-quilted colours through the air: Get up, sweet slug-a-bed, and see The dew bespangling herb and tree. Each flower has wept and bow'd toward the east Above an hour since: yet you not dress'd; Nay! not so much as out of bed? When all the birds have matins said And sung their thankful hymns, 'tis sin, Nay, profanation to keep in, Whereas a thousand virgins on this day Spring, sooner than the lark, to fetch in May.

Rise and put on your foliage, and be seen To come forth, like the spring-time, fresh and green, And sweet as Flora. Take no care For jewels for your gown or hair: Fear not; the leaves will strew Gems in abundance upon you: Besides, the childhood of the day has kept, Against you come, some orient pearls unwept; Come and receive them while the light Hangs on the dew-locks of the night: And Titan on the eastern hill Retires himself, or else stands still Till you come forth. Wash, dress, be brief in praying: Few beads are best when once we go a-Maying.

Come, my Corinna, come; and, coming, mark How each field turns a street, each street a park Made green and trimm'd with trees: see how Devotion gives each house a bough Or branch: each porch, each door ere this An ark, a tabernacle is, Made up of white-thorn neatly interwove; As if here were those cooler shades of love. Can such delights be in the street And open fields and we not see't? Come, we'll abroad; and let's obey The proclamation made for May: And sin no more, as we have done, by staying; But, my Corinna, come, let's go a-Maying.

There's not a budding boy or girl this day But is got up, and gone to bring in May. A deal of youth, ere this, is come Back, and with white-thorn laden home. Some have despatch'd their cakes and cream Before that we have left to dream: And some have wept, and woo'd, and plighted troth, And chose their priest, ere we can cast off sloth: Many a green-gown has been given; Many a kiss, both odd and even: Many a glance too has been sent From out the eye, love's firmament; Many a jest told of the keys betraying This night, and locks pick'd, yet we're not a-Maying.

Come, let us go while we are in our prime; And take the harmless folly of the time. We shall grow old apace, and die Before we know our liberty. Our life is short, and our days run As fast away as does the sun; And, as a vapour or a drop of rain, Once lost, can ne'er be found again, So when or you or I are made A fable, song, or fleeting shade, All love, all liking, all delight Lies drowned with us in endless night. Then while time serves, and we are but decaying, Come, my Corinna, come, let's go a-Maying.

Beads, prayers. Left to dream, ceased dreaming. Green-gown, tumble on the grass.

179. ON JULIA'S BREATH.

Breathe, Julia, breathe, and I'll protest, Nay more, I'll deeply swear, That all the spices of the east Are circumfused there.

Circumfused, spread around.

180. UPON A CHILD. AN EPITAPH.

But born, and like a short delight, I glided by my parents' sight. That done, the harder fates denied My longer stay, and so I died. If, pitying my sad parents' tears, You'll spill a tear or two with theirs, And with some flowers my grave bestrew, Love and they'll thank you for't. Adieu.

181. A DIALOGUE BETWIXT HORACE AND LYDIA, TRANSLATED ANNO 1627, AND SET BY MR. RO. RAMSEY.

Hor. While, Lydia, I was loved of thee, Nor any was preferred 'fore me To hug thy whitest neck, than I The Persian king lived not more happily.

Lyd. While thou no other didst affect, Nor Chloe was of more respect Than Lydia, far-famed Lydia, I flourished more than Roman Ilia.

Hor. Now Thracian Chloe governs me, Skilful i' th' harp and melody; For whose affection, Lydia, I (So fate spares her) am well content to die.

Lyd. My heart now set on fire is By Ornithes' son, young Calais, For whose commutual flames here I, To save his life, twice am content to die.

Hor. Say our first loves we should revoke, And, severed, join in brazen yoke; Admit I Chloe put away, And love again love-cast-off Lydia?

Lyd. Though mine be brighter than the star, Thou lighter than the cork by far, Rough as the Adriatic sea, yet I Will live with thee, or else for thee will die.

182. THE CAPTIV'D BEE, OR THE LITTLE FILCHER.

As Julia once a-slumbering lay It chanced a bee did fly that way, After a dew or dew-like shower, To tipple freely in a flower. For some rich flower he took the lip Of Julia, and began to sip; But when he felt he sucked from thence Honey, and in the quintessence, He drank so much he scarce could stir, So Julia took the pilferer. And thus surprised, as filchers use, He thus began himself t' excuse: Sweet lady-flower, I never brought Hither the least one thieving thought; But, taking those rare lips of yours For some fresh, fragrant, luscious flowers, I thought I might there take a taste, Where so much syrup ran at waste. Besides, know this: I never sting The flower that gives me nourishing; But with a kiss, or thanks, do pay For honey that I bear away. This said, he laid his little scrip Of honey 'fore her ladyship: And told her, as some tears did fall, That that he took, and that was all. At which she smiled, and bade him go And take his bag; but thus much know: When next he came a-pilfering so, He should from her full lips derive Honey enough to fill his hive.

185. AN ODE TO MASTER ENDYMION PORTER, UPON HIS BROTHER'S DEATH.

Not all thy flushing suns are set, Herrick, as yet; Nor doth this far-drawn hemisphere Frown and look sullen ev'rywhere. Days may conclude in nights, and suns may rest As dead within the west; Yet, the next morn, regild the fragrant east.

Alas! for me, that I have lost E'en all almost; Sunk is my sight, set is my sun, And all the loom of life undone: The staff, the elm, the prop, the shelt'ring wall Whereon my vine did crawl, Now, now blown down; needs must the old stock fall.

Yet, Porter, while thou keep'st alive, In death I thrive: And like a ph[oe]nix re-aspire From out my nard and fun'ral fire: And as I prune my feathered youth, so I Do mar'l how I could die When I had thee, my chief preserver, by.

I'm up, I'm up, and bless that hand Which makes me stand Now as I do, and but for thee I must confess I could not be. The debt is paid; for he who doth resign Thanks to the gen'rous vine Invites fresh grapes to fill his press with wine.

Mar'l, marvel.

186. TO HIS DYING BROTHER, MASTER WILLIAM HERRICK.

Life of my life, 'take not so soon thy flight, But stay the time till we have bade good-night. Thou hast both wind and tide with thee; thy way As soon despatch'd is by the night as day. Let us not then so rudely henceforth go Till we have wept, kissed, sigh'd, shook hands, or so. There's pain in parting, and a kind of hell, When once true lovers take their last farewell. What! shall we two our endless leaves take here Without a sad look or a solemn tear? He knows not love that hath not this truth proved, Love is most loth to leave the thing beloved. Pay we our vows and go; yet when we part, Then, even then, I will bequeath my heart Into thy loving hands; for I'll keep none To warm my breast when thou, my pulse, art gone. No, here I'll last, and walk (a harmless shade) About this urn wherein thy dust is laid, To guard it so as nothing here shall be Heavy to hurt those sacred seeds of thee.

187. THE OLIVE BRANCH.

Sadly I walk'd within the field, To see what comfort it would yield; And as I went my private way An olive branch before me lay, And seeing it I made a stay, And took it up and view'd it; then Kissing the omen, said Amen; Be, be it so, and let this be A divination unto me; That in short time my woes shall cease And Love shall crown my end with peace.

189. TO CHERRY-BLOSSOMS.

Ye may simper, blush and smile, And perfume the air awhile; But, sweet things, ye must be gone, Fruit, ye know, is coming on; Then, ah! then, where is your grace, Whenas cherries come in place?

190. HOW LILIES CAME WHITE.

White though ye be, yet, lilies, know, From the first ye were not so; But I'll tell ye What befell ye: Cupid and his mother lay In a cloud, while both did play, He with his pretty finger press'd The ruby niplet of her breast; Out of which the cream of light, Like to a dew, Fell down on you And made ye white.

191. TO PANSIES.

Ah, cruel love! must I endure Thy many scorns and find no cure? Say, are thy medicines made to be Helps to all others but to me? I'll leave thee and to pansies come, Comforts you'll afford me some; You can ease my heart and do What love could ne'er be brought unto.

192. ON GILLY-FLOWERS BEGOTTEN.

What was't that fell but now From that warm kiss of ours? Look, look! by love I vow They were two gilly-flowers.

Let's kiss and kiss again, For if so be our closes Make gilly-flowers, then I'm sure they'll fashion roses.

193. THE LILY IN A CRYSTAL.

You have beheld a smiling rose When virgins' hands have drawn O'er it a cobweb-lawn; And here you see this lily shows, Tomb'd in a crystal stone, More fair in this transparent case Than when it grew alone And had but single grace.

You see how cream but naked is Nor dances in the eye Without a strawberry, Or some fine tincture like to this, Which draws the sight thereto More by that wantoning with it Than when the paler hue No mixture did admit.

You see how amber through the streams More gently strokes the sight With some conceal'd delight Than when he darts his radiant beams Into the boundless air; Where either too much light his worth Doth all at once impair, Or set it little forth.

Put purple grapes or cherries in- To glass, and they will send More beauty to commend Them from that clean and subtle skin Than if they naked stood, And had no other pride at all But their own flesh and blood And tinctures natural.

Thus lily, rose, grape, cherry, cream, And strawberry do stir More love when they transfer A weak, a soft, a broken beam, Than if they should discover At full their proper excellence; Without some scene cast over To juggle with the sense.

Thus let this crystal'd lily be A rule how far to teach Your nakedness must reach; And that no further than we see Those glaring colours laid By art's wise hand, but to this end They should obey a shade, Lest they too far extend.

So though you're white as swan or snow, And have the power to move A world of men to love, Yet when your lawns and silks shall flow, And that white cloud divide Into a doubtful twilight, then, Then will your hidden pride Raise greater fires in men.

Tincture, colour, dye. Scene, a covering.

194. TO HIS BOOK.

Like to a bride, come forth, my book, at last, With all thy richest jewels overcast; Say, if there be, 'mongst many gems here, one Deserveless of the name of paragon; Blush not at all for that, since we have set Some pearls on queens that have been counterfeit.

195. UPON SOME WOMEN.

Thou who wilt not love, do this, Learn of me what woman is. Something made of thread and thrum. A mere botch of all and some. Pieces, patches, ropes of hair; Inlaid garbage everywhere. Outside silk and outside lawn; Scenes to cheat us neatly drawn. False in legs, and false in thighs; False in breast, teeth, hair, and eyes; False in head, and false enough; Only true in shreds and stuff.

Thrum, a small thread. All and some, anything and everything.

196. SUPREME FORTUNE FALLS SOONEST.

While leanest beasts in pastures feed, The fattest ox the first must bleed.

197. THE WELCOME TO SACK.

So soft streams meet, so springs with gladder smiles Meet after long divorcement by the isles; When love, the child of likeness, urgeth on Their crystal natures to a union: So meet stolen kisses, when the moony nights Call forth fierce lovers to their wish'd delights; So kings and queens meet, when desire convinces All thoughts but such as aim at getting princes, As I meet thee. Soul of my life and fame! Eternal lamp of love! whose radiant flame Out-glares the heaven's Osiris,[H] and thy gleams Out-shine the splendour of his mid-day beams. Welcome, O welcome, my illustrious spouse; Welcome as are the ends unto my vows; Aye! far more welcome than the happy soil The sea-scourged merchant, after all his toil, Salutes with tears of joy, when fires betray The smoky chimneys of his Ithaca. Where hast thou been so long from my embraces, Poor pitied exile? Tell me, did thy graces Fly discontented hence, and for a time Did rather choose to bless another clime? Or went'st thou to this end, the more to move me, By thy short absence, to desire and love thee? Why frowns my sweet? Why won't my saint confer Favours on me, her fierce idolater? Why are those looks, those looks the which have been Time-past so fragrant, sickly now drawn in Like a dull twilight? Tell me, and the fault I'll expiate with sulphur, hair and salt; And, with the crystal humour of the spring, Purge hence the guilt and kill this quarrelling. Wo't thou not smile or tell me what's amiss? Have I been cold to hug thee, too remiss, Too temp'rate in embracing? Tell me, has desire To thee-ward died i' th' embers, and no fire Left in this rak'd-up ash-heap as a mark To testify the glowing of a spark? Have I divorc'd thee only to combine In hot adult'ry with another wine? True, I confess I left thee, and appeal 'Twas done by me more to confirm my zeal And double my affection on thee, as do those Whose love grows more inflam'd by being foes. But to forsake thee ever, could there be A thought of such-like possibility? When thou thyself dar'st say thy isles shall lack Grapes before Herrick leaves canary sack. Thou mak'st me airy, active to be borne, Like Iphiclus, upon the tops of corn. Thou mak'st me nimble, as the winged hours, To dance and caper on the heads of flowers, And ride the sunbeams. Can there be a thing Under the heavenly Isis[I] that can bring More love unto my life, or can present My genius with a fuller blandishment? Illustrious idol! could th' Egyptians seek Help from the garlic, onion and the leek And pay no vows to thee, who wast their best God, and far more transcendent than the rest? Had Cassius, that weak water-drinker, known Thee in thy vine, or had but tasted one Small chalice of thy frantic liquor, he, As the wise Cato, had approv'd of thee. Had not Jove's son,[J] that brave Tirynthian swain, Invited to the Thesbian banquet, ta'en Full goblets of thy gen'rous blood, his sprite Ne'er had kept heat for fifty maids that night. Come, come and kiss me; love and lust commends Thee and thy beauties; kiss, we will be friends Too strong for fate to break us. Look upon Me with that full pride of complexion As queens meet queens, or come thou unto me As Cleopatra came to Anthony, When her high carriage did at once present To the triumvir love and wonderment. Swell up my nerves with spirit; let my blood Run through my veins like to a hasty flood. Fill each part full of fire, active to do What thy commanding soul shall put it to; And till I turn apostate to thy love, Which here I vow to serve, do not remove Thy fires from me, but Apollo's curse Blast these-like actions, or a thing that's worse. When these circumstants shall but live to see The time that I prevaricate from thee. Call me the son of beer, and then confine Me to the tap, the toast, the turf; let wine Ne'er shine upon me; may my numbers all Run to a sudden death and funeral. And last, when thee, dear spouse, I disavow, Ne'er may prophetic Daphne crown my brow.

Convinces, overcomes. Ithaca, the home of the wanderer Ulysses. Iphiclus won the foot-race at the funeral games of Pelias. Circumstants, surroundings.

[H] The sun. (Note in the original edition.)

[I] The moon. (Note in the original edition.)

[J] Hercules. (Note in the original edition.)

198. IMPOSSIBILITIES TO HIS FRIEND.

My faithful friend, if you can see The fruit to grow up, or the tree; If you can see the colour come Into the blushing pear or plum; If you can see the water grow To cakes of ice or flakes of snow; If you can see that drop of rain Lost in the wild sea once again; If you can see how dreams do creep Into the brain by easy sleep: Then there is hope that you may see Her love me once who now hates me.

201. TO LIVE MERRILY AND TO TRUST TO GOOD VERSES.

Now is the time for mirth, Nor cheek or tongue be dumb; For, with the flowery earth, The golden pomp is come.

The golden pomp is come; For now each tree does wear. Made of her pap and gum, Rich beads of amber here.

Now reigns the rose, and now Th' Arabian dew besmears My uncontrolled brow And my retorted hairs.

Homer, this health to thee, In sack of such a kind That it would make thee see Though thou wert ne'er so blind.

Next, Virgil I'll call forth To pledge this second health In wine, whose each cup's worth An Indian commonwealth.

A goblet next I'll drink To Ovid, and suppose, Made he the pledge, he'd think The world had all one nose.

Then this immensive cup Of aromatic wine, Catullus, I quaff up To that terse muse of thine.

Wild I am now with heat: O Bacchus, cool thy rays! Or, frantic, I shall eat Thy thyrse and bite the bays.

Round, round the roof does run, And, being ravish'd thus, Come, I will drink a tun To my Propertius.

Now, to Tibullus, next, This flood I drink to thee: But stay, I see a text That this presents to me.

Behold, Tibullus lies Here burnt, whose small return Of ashes scarce suffice To fill a little urn.

Trust to good verses then; They only will aspire When pyramids, as men, Are lost i' th' funeral fire.

And when all bodies meet In Lethe to be drown'd, Then only numbers sweet With endless life are crown'd.

Retorted, bound back, "retorto crine," Martial. Immensive, measureless.

202. FAIR DAYS: OR, DAWNS DECEITFUL.

Fair was the dawn, and but e'en now the skies Show'd like to cream inspir'd with strawberries, But on a sudden all was chang'd and gone That smil'd in that first sweet complexion. Then thunder-claps and lightning did conspire To tear the world, or set it all on fire. What trust to things below, whenas we see, As men, the heavens have their hypocrisy?

203. LIPS TONGUELESS.

For my part, I never care For those lips that tongue-tied are: Tell-tales I would have them be Of my mistress and of me. Let them prattle how that I Sometimes freeze and sometimes fry: Let them tell how she doth move Fore or backward in her love: Let them speak by gentle tones, One and th' other's passions: How we watch, and seldom sleep; How by willows we do weep; How by stealth we meet, and then Kiss, and sigh, so part again. This the lips we will permit For to tell, not publish it.

204. TO THE FEVER, NOT TO TROUBLE JULIA.

Thou'st dar'd too far; but, fury, now forbear To give the least disturbance to her hair: But less presume to lay a plait upon Her skin's most smooth and clear expansion. 'Tis like a lawny firmament as yet, Quite dispossess'd of either fray or fret. Come thou not near that film so finely spread, Where no one piece is yet unlevelled. This if thou dost, woe to thee, fury, woe, I'll send such frost, such hail, such sleet, and snow, Such flesh-quakes, palsies, and such fears as shall Dead thee to th' most, if not destroy thee all. And thou a thousand thousand times shalt be More shak'd thyself than she is scorch'd by thee.

205. TO VIOLETS.

Welcome, maids-of-honour! You do bring In the spring, And wait upon her.

She has virgins many, Fresh and fair; Yet you are More sweet than any.

You're the maiden posies, And so grac'd To be plac'd 'Fore damask roses.

Yet, though thus respected, By-and-by Ye do lie, Poor girls, neglected.

207. TO CARNATIONS. A SONG.

Stay while ye will, or go And leave no scent behind ye: Yet, trust me, I shall know The place where I may find ye.

Within my Lucia's cheek, Whose livery ye wear, Play ye at hide or seek, I'm sure to find ye there.

208. TO THE VIRGINS, TO MAKE MUCH OF TIME.

Gather ye rosebuds while ye may, Old time is still a-flying: And this same flower that smiles to-day To-morrow will be dying.

The glorious lamp of heaven, the sun, The higher he's a-getting, The sooner will his race be run, And nearer he's to setting.

That age is best which is the first, When youth and blood are warmer; But being spent, the worse, and worst Times still succeed the former.

Then be not coy, but use your time, And while ye may go marry: For having lost but once your prime You may for ever tarry.

209. SAFETY TO LOOK TO ONESELF.

For my neighbour I'll not know, Whether high he builds or no: Only this I'll look upon, Firm be my foundation. Sound or unsound, let it be! 'Tis the lot ordain'd for me. He who to the ground does fall Has not whence to sink at all.

210. TO HIS FRIEND, ON THE UNTUNABLE TIMES.

Play I could once; but, gentle friend, you see My harp hung up here on the willow tree. Sing I could once; and bravely, too, inspire With luscious numbers my melodious lyre. Draw I could once, although not stocks or stones, Amphion-like, men made of flesh and bones, Whither I would; but ah! I know not how, I feel in me this transmutation now. Grief, my dear friend, has first my harp unstrung, Wither'd my hand, and palsy-struck my tongue.

211. HIS POETRY HIS PILLAR.

Only a little more I have to write, Then I'll give o'er, And bid the world good-night.

'Tis but a flying minute That I must stay, Or linger in it; And then I must away.

O time that cut'st down all And scarce leav'st here Memorial Of any men that were.

How many lie forgot In vaults beneath? And piecemeal rot Without a fame in death?

Behold this living stone I rear for me, Ne'er to be thrown Down, envious Time, by thee.

Pillars let some set up If so they please: Here is my hope And my Pyramides.

212. SAFETY ON THE SHORE.

What though the sea be calm? Trust to the shore, Ships have been drown'd where late they danc'd before.

213. A PASTORAL UPON THE BIRTH OF PRINCE CHARLES. PRESENTED TO THE KING, AND SET BY MR. NIC. LANIERE.

The Speakers, Mirtillo, Amintas and Amarillis.

Amin. Good-day, Mirtillo. Mirt. And to you no less, And all fair signs lead on our shepherdess. Amar. With all white luck to you. Mirt. But say, what news Stirs in our sheep-walk? Amin. None, save that my ewes, My wethers, lambs, and wanton kids are well, Smooth, fair and fat! none better I can tell: Or that this day Menalcas keeps a feast For his sheep-shearers. Mirt. True, these are the least; But, dear Amintas and sweet Amarillis, Rest but a while here, by this bank of lilies, And lend a gentle ear to one report The country has. Amin. From whence? Amar. From whence? Mirt. The Court. Three days before the shutting in of May (With whitest wool be ever crown'd that day!) To all our joy a sweet-fac'd child was born, More tender than the childhood of the morn. Chor. Pan pipe to him, and bleats of lambs and sheep Let lullaby the pretty prince asleep! Mirt. And that his birth should be more singular At noon of day was seen a silver star, Bright as the wise men's torch which guided them To God's sweet babe, when born at Bethlehem; While golden angels (some have told to me) Sung out his birth with heavenly minstrelsy. Amin. O rare! But is't a trespass if we three Should wend along his babyship to see? Mirt. Not so, not so. Chor. But if it chance to prove At most a fault, 'tis but a fault of love. Amar. But, dear Mirtillo, I have heard it told Those learned men brought incense, myrrh and gold From countries far, with store of spices sweet, And laid them down for offerings at his feet. Mirt. 'Tis true, indeed; and each of us will bring Unto our smiling and our blooming king A neat, though not so great an offering. Amar. A garland for my gift shall be Of flowers ne'er suck'd by th' thieving bee; And all most sweet; yet all less sweet than he. Amin. And I will bear, along with you, Leaves dropping down the honeyed dew, With oaten pipes as sweet as new. Mirt. And I a sheep-hook will bestow, To have his little kingship know, As he is prince, he's shepherd too. Chor. Come, let's away, and quickly let's be dress'd, And quickly give—the swiftest grace is best. And when before him we have laid our treasures, We'll bless the babe, then back to country pleasures.

White, favourable.

214. TO THE LARK.

Good speed, for I this day Betimes my matins say: Because I do Begin to woo, Sweet-singing lark, Be thou the clerk, And know thy when To say, Amen. And if I prove Bless'd in my love, Then thou shalt be High-priest to me, At my return, To incense burn; And so to solemnise Love's and my sacrifice.

215. THE BUBBLE. A SONG.

To my revenge and to her desperate fears Fly, thou made bubble of my sighs and tears. In the wild air when thou hast rolled about, And, like a blasting planet, found her out. Stoop, mount, pass by to take her eye, then glare Like to a dreadful comet in the air: Next, when thou dost perceive her fixed sight For thy revenge to be most opposite, Then, like a globe or ball of wild-fire, fly, And break thyself in shivers on her eye.

216. A MEDITATION FOR HIS MISTRESS.

You are a tulip seen to-day, But, dearest, of so short a stay That where you grew scarce man can say.

You are a lovely July-flower, Yet one rude wind or ruffling shower Will force you hence, and in an hour.

You are a sparkling rose i' th' bud, Yet lost ere that chaste flesh and blood Can show where you or grew or stood.

You are a full-spread, fair-set vine, And can with tendrils love entwine, Yet dried ere you distil your wine.

You are like balm enclosed well In amber, or some crystal shell, Yet lost ere you transfuse your smell.

You are a dainty violet, Yet wither'd ere you can be set Within the virgin's coronet.

You are the queen all flowers among, But die you must, fair maid, ere long, As he, the maker of this song.

217. THE BLEEDING HAND; OR, THE SPRIG OF EGLANTINE GIVEN TO A MAID.

From this bleeding hand of mine Take this sprig of eglantine, Which, though sweet unto your smell, Yet the fretful briar will tell, He who plucks the sweets shall prove Many thorns to be in love.

218. LYRIC FOR LEGACIES.

Gold I've none, for use or show, Neither silver to bestow At my death; but this much know; That each lyric here shall be Of my love a legacy, Left to all posterity. Gentle friends, then do but please To accept such coins as these As my last remembrances.

219. A DIRGE UPON THE DEATH OF THE RIGHT VALIANT LORD, BERNARD STUART.

Hence, hence, profane! soft silence let us have While we this trental sing about thy grave.

Had wolves or tigers seen but thee, They would have showed civility; And, in compassion of thy years, Washed those thy purple wounds with tears. But since thou'rt slain, and in thy fall The drooping kingdom suffers all;

Chor. This we will do, we'll daily come And offer tears upon thy tomb: And if that they will not suffice, Thou shall have souls for sacrifice. Sleep in thy peace, while we with spice perfume thee, And cedar wash thee, that no times consume thee.

Live, live thou dost, and shall; for why? Souls do not with their bodies die: Ignoble offsprings, they may fall Into the flames of funeral: Whenas the chosen seed shall spring Fresh, and for ever flourishing.

Chor. And times to come shall, weeping, read thy glory Less in these marble stones than in thy story.

Trental, a dirge; but see Note. Cedar, oil of cedar.

220. TO PERENNA, A MISTRESS.

Dear Perenna, prithee come And with smallage dress my tomb: Add a cypress sprig thereto, With a tear, and so Adieu.

Smallage, water-parsley.

223. THE FAIRY TEMPLE; OR, OBERON'S CHAPEL DEDICATED TO MR. JOHN MERRIFIELD, COUNSELLOR-AT-LAW.

Rare temples thou hast seen, I know, And rich for in and outward show: Survey this chapel, built alone, Without or lime, or wood, or stone: Then say if one thou'st seen more fine Than this, the fairies' once, now thine.

THE TEMPLE.

A way enchased with glass and beads There is, that to the chapel leads: Whose structure, for his holy rest, Is here the halcyon's curious nest: Into the which who looks shall see His temple of idolatry, Where he of godheads has such store, As Rome's pantheon had not more. His house of Rimmon this he calls, Girt with small bones instead of walls. First, in a niche, more black than jet, His idol-cricket there is set: Then in a polished oval by There stands his idol-beetle-fly: Next in an arch, akin to this, His idol-canker seated is: Then in a round is placed by these His golden god, Cantharides. So that, where'er ye look, ye see, No capital, no cornice free, Or frieze, from this fine frippery. Now this the fairies would have known, Theirs is a mixed religion: And some have heard the elves it call Part pagan, part papistical. If unto me all tongues were granted, I could not speak the saints here painted. Saint Tit, Saint Nit, Saint Is, Saint Itis, Who 'gainst Mab's-state placed here right is; Saint Will o' th' Wisp, of no great bigness, But alias called here Fatuus ignis; Saint Frip, Saint Trip, Saint Fill, Saint Fillie Neither those other saintships will I Here go about for to recite Their number, almost infinite, Which one by one here set down are In this most curious calendar. First, at the entrance of the gate A little puppet-priest doth wait, Who squeaks to all the comers there: "Favour your tongues who enter here; Pure hands bring hither without stain." A second pules: "Hence, hence, profane!" Hard by, i' th' shell of half a nut, The holy-water there is put: A little brush of squirrel's hairs (Composed of odd, not even pairs,) Stands in the platter, or close by, To purge the fairy family. Near to the altar stands the priest, There off'ring up the Holy Grist, Ducking in mood and perfect tense, With (much-good-do-'t him) reverence. The altar is not here four-square, Nor in a form triangular, Nor made of glass, or wood, or stone, But of a little transverse bone; Which boys and bruckel'd children call (Playing for points and pins) cockal. Whose linen drapery is a thin Subtile and ductile codlin's skin: Which o'er the board is smoothly spread With little seal-work damasked. The fringe that circumbinds it too Is spangle-work of trembling dew, Which, gently gleaming, makes a show Like frost-work glitt'ring on the snow. Upon this fetuous board doth stand Something for show-bread, and at hand, Just in the middle of the altar, Upon an end, the fairy-psalter, Grac'd with the trout-flies' curious wings, Which serve for watchet ribbonings. Now, we must know, the elves are led Right by the rubric which they read. And, if report of them be true, They have their text for what they do; Aye, and their book of canons too. And, as Sir Thomas Parson tells, They have their book of articles; And, if that fairy-knight not lies, They have their book of homilies; And other scriptures that design A short but righteous discipline. The basin stands the board upon To take the free oblation: A little pin-dust, which they hold More precious than we prize our gold Which charity they give to many Poor of the parish, if there's any. Upon the ends of these neat rails, Hatch'd with the silver-light of snails, The elves in formal manner fix Two pure and holy candlesticks: In either which a small tall bent Burns for the altar's ornament. For sanctity they have to these Their curious copes and surplices Of cleanest cobweb hanging by In their religious vestery. They have their ash-pans and their brooms To purge the chapel and the rooms; Their many mumbling Mass-priests here, And many a dapper chorister, Their ush'ring vergers, here likewise Their canons and their chanteries. Of cloister-monks they have enow, Aye, and their abbey-lubbers too; And, if their legend do not lie, They much affect the papacy. And since the last is dead, there's hope Elf Boniface shall next be pope. They have their cups and chalices; Their pardons and indulgences; Their beads of nits, bells, books, and wax Candles, forsooth, and other knacks; Their holy oil, their fasting spittle; Their sacred salt here, not a little; Dry chips, old shoes, rags, grease and bones; Beside their fumigations To drive the devil from the cod-piece Of the friar (of work an odd piece). Many a trifle, too, and trinket, And for what use, scarce man would think it. Next, then, upon the chanters' side An apple's core is hung up dri'd, With rattling kernels, which is rung To call to morn and even-song. The saint to which the most he prays And offers incense nights and days, The lady of the lobster is, Whose foot-pace he doth stroke and kiss; And humbly chives of saffron brings For his most cheerful offerings. When, after these, h'as paid his vows He lowly to the altar bows; And then he dons the silk-worm's shed, Like a Turk's turban on his head, And reverently departeth thence, Hid in a cloud of frankincense, And by the glow-worm's light well guided, Goes to the feast that's now provided.

Halcyon, king-fisher. Saint Tit, etc., see Note. Mab's-state, Mab's chair of state. Bruckel'd, begrimed. Cockal, a game played with four huckle-bones. Codlin, an apple. Fetuous, feat, neat. Watchet, pale blue. Hatch'd, inlaid. Bent, bent grass. Nits, nuts. The lady of the lobster, part of the lobster's apparatus for digestion. Foot-pace, a mat. Chives, shreds.

224. TO MISTRESS KATHERINE BRADSHAW, THE LOVELY, THAT CROWNED HIM WITH LAUREL.

My muse in meads has spent her many hours, Sitting, and sorting several sorts of flowers To make for others garlands, and to set On many a head here many a coronet; But, amongst all encircled here, not one Gave her a day of coronation, Till you, sweet mistress, came and interwove A laurel for her, ever young as love— You first of all crown'd her: she must of due Render for that a crown of life to you.

225. THE PLAUDITE, OR END OF LIFE.

If, after rude and boisterous seas, My wearied pinnace here finds ease; If so it be I've gained the shore With safety of a faithful oar; If, having run my barque on ground, Ye see the aged vessel crown'd: What's to be done, but on the sands Ye dance and sing and now clap hands? The first act's doubtful, but we say It is the last commends the play.

226. TO THE MOST VIRTUOUS MISTRESS POT, WHO MANY TIMES ENTERTAINED HIM.

When I through all my many poems look, And see yourself to beautify my book, Methinks that only lustre doth appear A light fulfilling all the region here. Gild still with flames this firmament, and be A lamp eternal to my poetry. Which, if it now or shall hereafter shine, 'Twas by your splendour, lady, not by mine. The oil was yours; and that I owe for yet: He pays the half who does confess the debt.

227. TO MUSIC, TO BECALM HIS FEVER.

Charm me asleep and melt me so With thy delicious numbers, That, being ravished, hence I go Away in easy slumbers. Ease my sick head And make my bed, Thou power that canst sever From me this ill; And quickly still, Though thou not kill, My fever.

Thou sweetly canst convert the same From a consuming fire Into a gentle-licking flame, And make it thus expire. Then make me weep My pains asleep; And give me such reposes That I, poor I, May think thereby I live and die 'Mongst roses.

Fall on me like a silent dew, Or like those maiden showers Which, by the peep of day, do strew A baptism o'er the flowers. Melt, melt my pains With thy soft strains; That, having ease me given, With full delight I leave this light, And take my flight For heaven.

228. UPON A GENTLEWOMAN WITH A SWEET VOICE.

So long you did not sing or touch your lute, We knew 'twas flesh and blood that there sat mute. But when your playing and your voice came in, 'Twas no more you then, but a cherubin.

229. UPON CUPID.

As lately I a garland bound, 'Mongst roses I there Cupid found; I took him, put him in my cup, And drunk with wine, I drank him up. Hence then it is that my poor breast Could never since find any rest.

230. UPON JULIA'S BREASTS.

Display thy breasts, my Julia—there let me Behold that circummortal purity, Between whose glories there my lips I'll lay, Ravish'd in that fair via lactea.

Circummortal, more than mortal.

231. BEST TO BE MERRY.

Fools are they who never know How the times away do go; But for us, who wisely see Where the bounds of black death be, Let's live merrily, and thus Gratify the Genius.

232. THE CHANGES TO CORINNA.

Be not proud, but now incline Your soft ear to discipline. You have changes in your life— Sometimes peace and sometimes strife; You have ebbs of face and flows, As your health or comes or goes; You have hopes, and doubts, and fears Numberless, as are your hairs. You have pulses that do beat High, and passions less of heat. You are young, but must be old, And, to these, ye must be told Time ere long will come and plough Loathed furrows in your brow: And the dimness of your eye Will no other thing imply But you must die As well as I.

234. NEGLECT.

Art quickens nature; care will make a face; Neglected beauty perisheth apace.

235. UPON HIMSELF.

Mop-eyed I am, as some have said, Because I've lived so long a maid: But grant that I should wedded be, Should I a jot the better see? No, I should think that marriage might, Rather than mend, put out the light.

Mop-eyed, shortsighted.

236. UPON A PHYSICIAN.

Thou cam'st to cure me, doctor, of my cold, And caught'st thyself the more by twenty fold: Prithee go home; and for thy credit be First cured thyself, then come and cure me.

238. TO THE ROSE. A SONG.

Go, happy rose, and interwove With other flowers, bind my love. Tell her, too, she must not be Longer flowing, longer free, That so oft has fetter'd me.

Say, if she's fretful, I have bands Of pearl and gold to bind her hands. Tell her, if she struggle still, I have myrtle rods (at will) For to tame, though not to kill.

Take thou my blessing, thus, and go And tell her this, but do not so, Lest a handsome anger fly, Like a lightning, from her eye, And burn thee up as well as I.

240. TO HIS BOOK.

Thou art a plant sprung up to wither never, But like a laurel to grow green for ever.

241. UPON A PAINTED GENTLEWOMAN.

Men say y'are fair, and fair ye are, 'tis true; But, hark! we praise the painter now, not you.

243. DRAW-GLOVES.

At draw-gloves we'll play, And prithee let's lay A wager, and let it be this: Who first to the sum Of twenty shall come, Shall have for his winning a kiss.

Draw-gloves, a game of talking by the fingers.

244. TO MUSIC, TO BECALM A SWEET-SICK YOUTH.

Charms, that call down the moon from out her sphere, On this sick youth work your enchantments here: Bind up his senses with your numbers so As to entrance his pain, or cure his woe. Fall gently, gently, and a while him keep Lost in the civil wilderness of sleep: That done, then let him, dispossessed of pain, Like to a slumb'ring bride, awake again.

245. TO THE HIGH AND NOBLE PRINCE GEORGE, DUKE, MARQUIS, AND EARL OF BUCKINGHAM.

Never my book's perfection did appear Till I had got the name of Villars here: Now 'tis so full that when therein I look I see a cloud of glory fills my book. Here stand it still to dignify our Muse, Your sober handmaid, who doth wisely choose Your name to be a laureate wreath to her Who doth both love and fear you, honoured sir.

246. HIS RECANTATION.

Love, I recant, And pardon crave That lately I offended; But 'twas, Alas! To make a brave, But no disdain intended.

No more I'll vaunt, For now I see Thou only hast the power To find And bind A heart that's free, And slave it in an hour.

247. THE COMING OF GOOD LUCK.

So good luck came, and on my roof did light, Like noiseless snow, or as the dew of night: Not all at once, but gently, as the trees Are by the sunbeams tickled by degrees.

248. THE PRESENT; OR, THE BAG OF THE BEE.

Fly to my mistress, pretty pilfering bee, And say thou bring'st this honey bag from me: When on her lip thou hast thy sweet dew placed, Mark if her tongue but slyly steal a taste. If so, we live; if not, with mournful hum Toll forth my death; next, to my burial come.

249. ON LOVE.

Love bade me ask a gift, And I no more did move But this, that I might shift Still with my clothes my love: That favour granted was; Since which, though I love many, Yet so it comes to pass That long I love not any.

250. THE HOCK-CART OR HARVEST HOME. TO THE RIGHT HONOURABLE MILDMAY, EARL OF WESTMORELAND.

Come, sons of summer, by whose toil We are the lords of wine and oil: By whose tough labours and rough hands We rip up first, then reap our lands. Crowned with the ears of corn, now come, And to the pipe sing harvest home. Come forth, my lord, and see the cart Dressed up with all the country art: See here a maukin, there a sheet, As spotless pure as it is sweet: The horses, mares, and frisking fillies, Clad all in linen white as lilies. The harvest swains and wenches bound For joy, to see the hock-cart crowned. About the cart, hear how the rout Of rural younglings raise the shout; Pressing before, some coming after, Those with a shout, and these with laughter. Some bless the cart, some kiss the sheaves, Some prank them up with oaken leaves: Some cross the fill-horse, some with great Devotion stroke the home-borne wheat: While other rustics, less attent To prayers than to merriment, Run after with their breeches rent. Well, on, brave boys, to your lord's hearth, Glitt'ring with fire, where, for your mirth, Ye shall see first the large and chief Foundation of your feast, fat beef: With upper stories, mutton, veal And bacon (which makes full the meal), With sev'ral dishes standing by, As here a custard, there a pie, And here all-tempting frumenty. And for to make the merry cheer, If smirking wine be wanting here, There's that which drowns all care, stout beer; Which freely drink to your lord's health, Then to the plough, the commonwealth, Next to your flails, your fans, your fats, Then to the maids with wheaten hats: To the rough sickle, and crook'd scythe, Drink, frolic boys, till all be blithe. Feed, and grow fat; and as ye eat Be mindful that the lab'ring neat, As you, may have their fill of meat. And know, besides, ye must revoke The patient ox unto the yoke, And all go back unto the plough And harrow, though they're hanged up now. And, you must know, your lord's word's true, Feed him ye must, whose food fills you; And that this pleasure is like rain, Not sent ye for to drown your pain, But for to make it spring again.

Maukin, a cloth. Fill-horse, shaft-horse. Frumenty, wheat boiled in milk. Fats, vats.

251. THE PERFUME.

To-morrow, Julia, I betimes must rise, For some small fault to offer sacrifice: The altar's ready: fire to consume The fat; breathe thou, and there's the rich perfume.

252. UPON HER VOICE.

Let but thy voice engender with the string, And angels will be born while thou dost sing.

253. NOT TO LOVE.

He that will not love must be My scholar, and learn this of me: There be in love as many fears As the summer's corn has ears: Sighs, and sobs, and sorrows more Than the sand that makes the shore: Freezing cold and fiery heats, Fainting swoons and deadly sweats; Now an ague, then a fever, Both tormenting lovers ever. Would'st thou know, besides all these, How hard a woman 'tis to please, How cross, how sullen, and how soon She shifts and changes like the moon. How false, how hollow she's in heart: And how she is her own least part: How high she's priz'd, and worth but small; Little thou'lt love, or not at all.

254. TO MUSIC. A SONG.

Music, thou queen of heaven, care-charming spell, That strik'st a stillness into hell: Thou that tam'st tigers, and fierce storms that rise, With thy soul-melting lullabies, Fall down, down, down from those thy chiming spheres, To charm our souls, as thou enchant'st our ears.

255. TO THE WESTERN WIND.

Sweet western wind, whose luck it is, Made rival with the air, To give Perenna's lip a kiss, And fan her wanton hair.

Bring me but one, I'll promise thee, Instead of common showers, Thy wings shall be embalm'd by me, And all beset with flowers.

256. UPON THE DEATH OF HIS SPARROW. AN ELEGY.

Why do not all fresh maids appear To work love's sampler only here, Where spring-time smiles throughout the year? Are not here rosebuds, pinks, all flowers Nature begets by th' sun and showers, Met in one hearse-cloth to o'erspread The body of the under-dead? Phil, the late dead, the late dead dear, O! may no eye distil a tear For you once lost, who weep not here! Had Lesbia, too-too kind, but known This sparrow, she had scorn'd her own: And for this dead which under lies Wept out her heart, as well as eyes. But, endless peace, sit here and keep My Phil the time he has to sleep; And thousand virgins come and weep To make these flowery carpets show Fresh as their blood, and ever grow, Till passengers shall spend their doom: Not Virgil's gnat had such a tomb.

Phil, otherwise Philip or Phip, was a pet name for a sparrow. Virgil's gnat, the Culex attributed to Virgil.

257. TO PRIMROSES FILLED WITH MORNING DEW.

Why do ye weep, sweet babes? can tears Speak grief in you, Who were but born Just as the modest morn Teem'd her refreshing dew? Alas! you have not known that shower That mars a flower, Nor felt th' unkind Breath of a blasting wind, Nor are ye worn with years, Or warp'd as we, Who think it strange to see Such pretty flowers, like to orphans young, To speak by tears before ye have a tongue.

Speak, whimp'ring younglings, and make known The reason why Ye droop and weep; Is it for want of sleep? Or childish lullaby? Or that ye have not seen as yet The violet? Or brought a kiss From that sweetheart to this? No, no, this sorrow shown By your tears shed Would have this lecture read: That things of greatest, so of meanest worth, Conceiv'd with grief are, and with tears brought forth.

258. HOW ROSES CAME RED.

Roses at first were white, Till they could not agree, Whether my Sappho's breast Or they more white should be.

But, being vanquish'd quite, A blush their cheeks bespread; Since which, believe the rest, The roses first came red.

259. COMFORT TO A LADY UPON THE DEATH OF HER HUSBAND.

Dry your sweet cheek, long drown'd with sorrow's rain, Since, clouds dispers'd, suns gild the air again. Seas chafe and fret, and beat, and overboil, But turn soon after calm as balm or oil. Winds have their time to rage; but when they cease The leafy trees nod in a still-born peace. Your storm is over; lady, now appear Like to the peeping springtime of the year. Off then with grave clothes; put fresh colours on, And flow and flame in your vermilion. Upon your cheek sat icicles awhile; Now let the rose reign like a queen, and smile.

260. HOW VIOLETS CAME BLUE.

Love on a day, wise poets tell, Some time in wrangling spent, Whether the violets should excel, Or she, in sweetest scent.

But Venus having lost the day, Poor girls, she fell on you: And beat ye so, as some dare say, Her blows did make ye blue.

262. TO THE WILLOW-TREE.

Thou art to all lost love the best, The only true plant found, Wherewith young men and maids distres't, And left of love, are crown'd.

When once the lover's rose is dead, Or laid aside forlorn: Then willow-garlands 'bout the head Bedew'd with tears are worn.

When with neglect, the lovers' bane, Poor maids rewarded be, For their love lost, their only gain Is but a wreath from thee.

And underneath thy cooling shade, When weary of the light, The love-spent youth and love-sick maid Come to weep out the night.

263. MRS. ELIZ. WHEELER, UNDER THE NAME OF THE LOST SHEPHERDESS.

Among the myrtles as I walk'd, Love and my sighs thus intertalk'd: Tell me, said I, in deep distress, Where I may find my shepherdess. Thou fool, said Love, know'st thou not this? In everything that's sweet she is. In yond' carnation go and seek, There thou shalt find her lip and cheek: In that enamell'd pansy by, There thou shalt have her curious eye: In bloom of peach and rose's bud, There waves the streamer of her blood. 'Tis true, said I, and thereupon I went to pluck them one by one, To make of parts a union: But on a sudden all were gone. At which I stopp'd; said Love, these be The true resemblances of thee; For, as these flowers, thy joys must die, And in the turning of an eye: And all thy hopes of her must wither, Like those short sweets, ere knit together.

264. TO THE KING.

If when these lyrics, Caesar, you shall hear, And that Apollo shall so touch your ear As for to make this, that, or any one, Number your own, by free adoption; That verse, of all the verses here, shall be The heir to this great realm of poetry.

265. TO THE QUEEN.

Goddess of youth, and lady of the spring, Most fit to be the consort to a king, Be pleas'd to rest you in this sacred grove Beset with myrtles, whose each leaf drops love. Many a sweet-fac'd wood-nymph here is seen, Of which chaste order you are now the queen: Witness their homage when they come and strew Your walks with flowers, and give their crowns to you. Your leafy throne, with lily-work possess, And be both princess here and poetess.

266. THE POET'S GOOD WISHES FOR THE MOST HOPEFUL AND HANDSOME PRINCE, THE DUKE OF YORK.

May his pretty dukeship grow Like t'a rose of Jericho: Sweeter far than ever yet Showers or sunshines could beget. May the Graces and the Hours Strew his hopes and him with flowers: And so dress him up with love As to be the chick of Jove. May the thrice-three sisters sing Him the sovereign of their spring: And entitle none to be Prince of Helicon but he. May his soft foot, where it treads, Gardens thence produce and meads: And those meadows full be set With the rose and violet. May his ample name be known To the last succession: And his actions high be told Through the world, but writ in gold.

267. TO ANTHEA, WHO MAY COMMAND HIM ANYTHING.

Bid me to live, and I will live Thy Protestant to be, Or bid me love, and I will give A loving heart to thee.

A heart as soft, a heart as kind, A heart as sound and free As in the whole world thou canst find, That heart I'll give to thee.

Bid that heart stay, and it will stay To honour thy decree: Or bid it languish quite away, And't shall do so for thee.

Bid me to weep, and I will weep While I have eyes to see: And, having none, yet I will keep A heart to weep for thee.

Bid me despair, and I'll despair Under that cypress-tree: Or bid me die, and I will dare E'en death to die for thee.

Thou art my life, my love, my heart, The very eyes of me: And hast command of every part To live and die for thee.

268. PREVISION OR PROVISION.

That prince takes soon enough the victor's room Who first provides not to be overcome.

269. OBEDIENCE IN SUBJECTS.

The gods to kings the judgment give to sway: The subjects only glory to obey.

270. MORE POTENT, LESS PECCANT.

He that may sin, sins least: leave to transgress Enfeebles much the seeds of wickedness.

271. UPON A MAID THAT DIED THE DAY SHE WAS MARRIED.

That morn which saw me made a bride, The evening witness'd that I died. Those holy lights, wherewith they guide Unto the bed the bashful bride, Serv'd but as tapers for to burn And light my relics to their urn. This epitaph, which here you see, Supplied the epithalamy.

274. TO MEADOWS.

Ye have been fresh and green, Ye have been fill'd with flowers, And ye the walks have been Where maids have spent their hours. You have beheld how they With wicker arks did come To kiss and bear away The richer cowslips home.

Y'ave heard them sweetly sing, And seen them in a round: Each virgin like a spring, With honeysuckles crown'd.

But now we see none here Whose silvery feet did tread, And with dishevell'd hair Adorn'd this smoother mead.

Like unthrifts, having spent Your stock and needy grown, Y'are left here to lament Your poor estates, alone.

Round, a rustic dance.

275. CROSSES.

Though good things answer many good intents, Crosses do still bring forth the best events.

276. MISERIES.

Though hourly comforts from the gods we see, No life is yet life-proof from misery.

278. TO HIS HOUSEHOLD GODS.

Rise, household gods, and let us go; But whither I myself not know. First, let us dwell on rudest seas; Next, with severest savages; Last, let us make our best abode Where human foot as yet ne'er trod: Search worlds of ice, and rather there Dwell than in loathed Devonshire.

279. TO THE NIGHTINGALE AND ROBIN REDBREAST.

When I departed am, ring thou my knell, Thou pitiful and pretty Philomel: And when I'm laid out for a corse, then be Thou sexton, redbreast, for to cover me.

280. TO THE YEW AND CYPRESS TO GRACE HIS FUNERAL.

Both you two have Relation to the grave: And where The funeral-trump sounds, you are there,

I shall be made, Ere long, a fleeting shade: Pray, come And do some honour to my tomb.

Do not deny My last request; for I Will be Thankful to you, or friends, for me.

281. I CALL AND I CALL.

I call, I call: who do ye call? The maids to catch this cowslip ball: But since these cowslips fading be, Troth, leave the flowers, and, maids, take me. Yet, if that neither you will do, Speak but the word and I'll take you.

282. ON A PERFUMED LADY.

You say you're sweet; how should we know Whether that you be sweet or no? From powders and perfumes keep free, Then we shall smell how sweet you be.

283. A NUPTIAL SONG OR EPITHALAMY ON SIR CLIPSEBY CREW AND HIS LADY.

What's that we see from far? the spring of day Bloom'd from the east, or fair enjewell'd May Blown out of April, or some new Star filled with glory to our view, Reaching at heaven, To add a nobler planet to the seven? Say, or do we not descry Some goddess in a cloud of tiffany To move, or rather the Emergent Venus from the sea?

'Tis she! 'tis she! or else some more divine Enlightened substance; mark how from the shrine Of holy saints she paces on, Treading upon vermilion And amber: spic- ing the chaft air with fumes of Paradise. Then come on, come on and yield A savour like unto a blessed field When the bedabbled morn Washes the golden ears of corn.

See where she comes; and smell how all the street Breathes vineyards and pomegranates: O how sweet! As a fir'd altar is each stone, Perspiring pounded cinnamon. The ph[oe]nix' nest, Built up of odours, burneth in her breast. Who, therein, would not consume His soul to ash-heaps in that rich perfume? Bestroking fate the while He burns to embers on the pile.

Hymen, O Hymen! tread the sacred ground; Show thy white feet and head with marjoram crown'd: Mount up thy flames and let thy torch Display the bridegroom in the porch, In his desires More towering, more disparkling than thy fires: Show her how his eyes do turn And roll about, and in their motions burn Their balls to cinders: haste Or else to ashes he will waste.

Glide by the banks of virgins, then, and pass The showers of roses, lucky four-leav'd grass: The while the cloud of younglings sing And drown ye with a flowery spring; While some repeat Your praise and bless you, sprinkling you with wheat; While that others do divine, Bless'd is the bride on whom the sun doth shine; And thousands gladly wish You multiply as doth a fish.

And, beauteous bride, we do confess y'are wise In dealing forth these bashful jealousies: In love's name do so; and a price Set on yourself by being nice: But yet take heed; What now you seem be not the same indeed, And turn apostate: love will, Part of the way be met or sit stone-still. On, then, and though you slow- ly go, yet, howsoever, go.

And now y'are entered; see the coddled cook Runs from his torrid zone to pry and look And bless his dainty mistress: see The aged point out, "This is she Who now must sway The house (love shield her) with her yea and nay": And the smirk butler thinks it Sin in's napery not to express his wit; Each striving to devise Some gin wherewith to catch your eyes.

To bed, to bed, kind turtles, now, and write This the short'st day, and this the longest night; But yet too short for you: 'tis we Who count this night as long as three, Lying alone, Telling the clock strike ten, eleven, twelve, one. Quickly, quickly then prepare, And let the young men and the bride-maids share Your garters; and their joints Encircle with the bridegroom's points.

By the bride's eyes, and by the teeming life Of her green hopes, we charge ye that no strife (Farther than gentleness tends) gets place Among ye, striving for her lace: O do not fall Foul in these noble pastimes, lest ye call Discord in, and so divide The youthful bridegroom and the fragrant bride: Which love forfend; but spoken Be't to your praise, no peace was broken.

Strip her of springtime, tender-whimpering maids, Now autumn's come, when all these flowery aids Of her delays must end; dispose That lady-smock, that pansy, and that rose Neatly apart, But for prick-madam and for gentle-heart, And soft maidens'-blush, the bride Makes holy these, all others lay aside: Then strip her, or unto her Let him come who dares undo her.

And to enchant ye more, see everywhere About the roof a siren in a sphere, As we think, singing to the din Of many a warbling cherubin. O mark ye how The soul of nature melts in numbers: now See, a thousand Cupids fly To light their tapers at the bride's bright eye. To bed, or her they'll tire, Were she an element of fire.

And to your more bewitching, see, the proud Plump bed bear up, and swelling like a cloud, Tempting the two too modest; can Ye see it brusle like a swan, And you be cold To meet it when it woos and seems to fold The arms to hug it? Throw, throw Yourselves into the mighty overflow Of that white pride, and drown The night with you in floods of down.

The bed is ready, and the maze of love Looks for the treaders; everywhere is wove Wit and new mystery; read, and Put in practice, to understand And know each wile, Each hieroglyphic of a kiss or smile; And do it to the full; reach High in your own conceit, and some way teach Nature and art one more Play than they ever knew before.

If needs we must for ceremony's sake, Bless a sack-posset, luck go with it, take The night-charm quickly, you have spells And magics for to end, and hells To pass; but such And of such torture as no one would grutch To live therein for ever: fry And consume, and grow again to die And live, and, in that case, Love the confusion of the place.

But since it must be done, despatch, and sew Up in a sheet your bride, and what if so It be with rock or walls of brass Ye tower her up, as Danae was; Think you that this Or hell itself a powerful bulwark is? I tell ye no; but like a Bold bolt of thunder he will make his way, And rend the cloud, and throw The sheet about like flakes of snow.

All now is hushed in silence: midwife-moon With all her owl-eyed issue begs a boon, Which you must grant; that's entrance; with Which extract, all we can call pith And quintessence Of planetary bodies, so commence, All fair constellations Looking upon ye, that two nations, Springing from two such fires May blaze the virtue of their sires.

Tiffany, gauze. More disparkling, more widespreading. Nice, fastidious. Coddled, lit. boiled. Lace, girdle. Brusle, raise its feathers. Grutch, grumble.

284. THE SILKEN SNAKE.

For sport my Julia threw a lace Of silk and silver at my face: Watchet the silk was, and did make A show as if't had been a snake: The suddenness did me afright, But though it scar'd, it did not bite.

Lace, a girdle. Watchet, pale blue.

285. UPON HIMSELF.

I am sieve-like, and can hold Nothing hot or nothing cold. Put in love, and put in too Jealousy, and both will through: Put in fear, and hope, and doubt; What comes in runs quickly out: Put in secrecies withal, Whate'er enters, out it shall: But if you can stop the sieve, For mine own part, I'd as lief Maids should say or virgins sing, Herrick keeps, as holds nothing.

286. UPON LOVE.

Love's a thing, as I do hear, Ever full of pensive fear; Rather than to which I'll fall, Trust me, I'll not like at all. If to love I should intend, Let my hair then stand an end: And that terror likewise prove Fatal to me in my love. But if horror cannot slake Flames which would an entrance make Then the next thing I desire Is, to love and live i' th' fire.

An end, on end.

287. REVERENCE TO RICHES.

Like to the income must be our expense; Man's fortune must be had in reverence.

288. DEVOTION MAKES THE DEITY.

Who forms a godhead out of gold or stone Makes not a god, but he that prays to one.

289. TO ALL YOUNG MEN THAT LOVE.

I could wish you all who love, That ye could your thoughts remove From your mistresses, and be Wisely wanton, like to me, I could wish you dispossessed Of that fiend that mars your rest, And with tapers comes to fright Your weak senses in the night. I could wish ye all who fry Cold as ice, or cool as I; But if flames best like ye, then, Much good do 't ye, gentlemen. I a merry heart will keep, While you wring your hands and weep.

290. THE EYES.

'Tis a known principle in war, The eyes be first that conquered are.

291. NO FAULT IN WOMEN.

No fault in women to refuse The offer which they most would choose. No fault in women to confess How tedious they are in their dress. No fault in women to lay on The tincture of vermilion: And there to give the cheek a dye Of white, where nature doth deny. No fault in women to make show Of largeness when they're nothing so: (When true it is the outside swells With inward buckram, little else). No fault in women, though they be But seldom from suspicion free. No fault in womankind at all If they but slip and never fall.

293. OBERON'S FEAST.

Shapcot! to thee the fairy state I, with discretion, dedicate. Because thou prizest things that are Curious and unfamiliar. Take first the feast; these dishes gone, We'll see the Fairy Court anon.

A little mushroom table spread, After short prayers, they set on bread; A moon-parch'd grain of purest wheat, With some small glittering grit to eat His choice bits with; then in a trice They make a feast less great than nice. But all this while his eye is serv'd, We must not think his ear was sterv'd; But that there was in place to stir His spleen, the chirring grasshopper, The merry cricket, puling fly, The piping gnat for minstrelsy. And now we must imagine first, The elves present, to quench his thirst, A pure seed-pearl of infant dew Brought and besweetened in a blue And pregnant violet, which done, His kitling eyes begin to run Quite through the table, where he spies The horns of papery butterflies: Of which he eats, and tastes a little Of that we call the cuckoo's spittle. A little fuzz-ball pudding stands By, yet not blessed by his hands; That was too coarse: but then forthwith He ventures boldly on the pith Of sugar'd rush, and eats the sagg And well-bestrutted bee's sweet bag: Gladding his palate with some store Of emmets' eggs; what would he more? But beards of mice, a newt's stewed thigh, A bloated earwig and a fly; With the red-capp'd worm that's shut Within the concave of a nut, Brown as his tooth. A little moth Late fatten'd in a piece of cloth: With withered cherries, mandrakes' ears, Moles' eyes; to these the slain stag's tears The unctuous dewlaps of a snail, The broke-heart of a nightingale O'ercome in music; with a wine Ne'er ravish'd from the flattering vine, But gently press'd from the soft side Of the most sweet and dainty bride, Brought in a dainty daisy, which He fully quaffs up to bewitch His blood to height; this done, commended Grace by his priest; the feast is ended.

Sagg, laden. Bestrutted, swollen.

294. EVENT OF THINGS NOT IN OUR POWER.

By time and counsel do the best we can, Th' event is never in the power of man.

295. UPON HER BLUSH.

When Julia blushes she does show Cheeks like to roses when they blow.

296. MERITS MAKE THE MAN.

Our honours and our commendations be Due to the merits, not authority.

297. TO VIRGINS.

Hear, ye virgins, and I'll teach What the times of old did preach. Rosamond was in a bower Kept, as Danae in a tower: But yet Love, who subtle is, Crept to that, and came to this. Be ye lock'd up like to these, Or the rich Hesperides, Or those babies in your eyes, In their crystal nunneries; Notwithstanding Love will win, Or else force a passage in: And as coy be as you can, Gifts will get ye, or the man.

Babies in your eyes, see Note to p. 17.

298. VIRTUE.

Each must in virtue strive for to excel; That man lives twice that lives the first life well.

299. THE BELLMAN.

From noise of scare-fires rest ye free, From murders Benedicite. From all mischances that may fright Your pleasing slumbers in the night, Mercy secure ye all, and keep The goblin from ye while ye sleep. Past one o'clock, and almost two! My masters all, good-day to you.

Scare-fires, alarms of fire.

300. BASHFULNESS.

Of all our parts, the eyes express The sweetest kind of bashfulness.

301. TO THE MOST ACCOMPLISHED GENTLEMAN, MASTER EDWARD NORGATE, CLERK OF THE SIGNET TO HIS MAJESTY. EPIG.

For one so rarely tun'd to fit all parts, For one to whom espous'd are all the arts, Long have I sought for, but could never see Them all concentr'd in one man, but thee. Thus, thou that man art whom the fates conspir'd To make but one, and that's thyself, admir'd.

302. UPON PRUDENCE BALDWIN: HER SICKNESS.

Prue, my dearest maid, is sick, Almost to be lunatic: AEsculapius! come and bring Means for her recovering; And a gallant cock shall be Offer'd up by her to thee.

Cock, the traditional offering to AEsculapius; cp. the last words of Socrates; cp. Ben Jonson, Epig. xiii.

303. TO APOLLO. A SHORT HYMN.

Ph[oe]bus! when that I a verse Or some numbers more rehearse, Tune my words that they may fall Each way smoothly musical: For which favour there shall be Swans devoted unto thee.

304. A HYMN TO BACCHUS.

Bacchus, let me drink no more; Wild are seas that want a shore. When our drinking has no stint, There is no one pleasure in't. I have drank up, for to please Thee, that great cup Hercules: Urge no more, and there shall be Daffodils given up to thee.

306. ON HIMSELF.

Here down my wearied limbs I'll lay; My pilgrim's staff, my weed of gray, My palmer's hat, my scallop's shell, My cross, my cord, and all, farewell. For having now my journey done, Just at the setting of the sun, Here I have found a chamber fit, God and good friends be thanked for it, Where if I can a lodger be, A little while from tramplers free, At my up-rising next I shall, If not requite, yet thank ye all. Meanwhile, the holy-rood hence fright The fouler fiend and evil sprite From scaring you or yours this night.

307. CASUALTIES.

Good things that come of course, far less do please Than those which come by sweet contingencies.

308. BRIBES AND GIFTS GET ALL.

Dead falls the cause if once the hand be mute; But let that speak, the client gets the suit.

309. THE END.

If well thou hast begun, go on fore-right; It is the end that crowns us, not the fight.

310. UPON A CHILD THAT DIED.

Here she lies, a pretty bud, Lately made of flesh and blood: Who as soon fell fast asleep As her little eyes did peep. Give her strewings, but not stir The earth that lightly covers her.

312. CONTENT, NOT CATES.

'Tis not the food, but the content That makes the table's merriment. Where trouble serves the board, we eat The platters there as soon as meat. A little pipkin with a bit Of mutton or of veal in it, Set on my table, trouble-free, More than a feast contenteth me.

313. THE ENTERTAINMENT; OR, PORCH-VERSE, AT THE MARRIAGE OF MR. HENRY NORTHLY AND THE MOST WITTY MRS. LETTICE YARD.

Welcome! but yet no entrance, till we bless First you, then you, and both for white success. Profane no porch, young man and maid, for fear Ye wrong the Threshold-god that keeps peace here: Please him, and then all good-luck will betide You, the brisk bridegroom, you, the dainty bride. Do all things sweetly, and in comely wise; Put on your garlands first, then sacrifice: That done, when both of you have seemly fed, We'll call on Night, to bring ye both to bed: Where, being laid, all fair signs looking on, Fish-like, increase then to a million; And millions of spring-times may ye have, Which spent, one death bring to ye both one grave.

314. THE GOOD-NIGHT OR BLESSING.

Blessings in abundance come To the bride and to her groom; May the bed and this short night Know the fulness of delight! Pleasures many here attend ye, And, ere long, a boy Love send ye Curled and comely, and so trim, Maids, in time, may ravish him. Thus a dew of graces fall On ye both; good-night to all.

316. TO DAFFODILS.

Fair daffodils, we weep to see You haste away so soon; As yet the early-rising sun Has not attain'd his noon. Stay, stay, Until the hasting day Has run But to the evensong; And, having prayed together, we Will go with you along.

We have short time to stay, as you, We have as short a spring; As quick a growth to meet decay, As you, or anything. We die, As your hours do, and dry Away, Like to the summer's rain; Or as the pearls of morning's dew, Ne'er to be found again.

318. UPON A LADY THAT DIED IN CHILD-BED, AND LEFT A DAUGHTER BEHIND HER.

As gilliflowers do but stay To blow, and seed, and so away; So you, sweet lady, sweet as May, The garden's glory, lived a while To lend the world your scent and smile. But when your own fair print was set Once in a virgin flosculet, Sweet as yourself, and newly blown, To give that life, resigned your own: But so as still the mother's power Lives in the pretty lady-flower.

319. A NEW-YEAR'S GIFT SENT TO SIR SIMON STEWARD.

No news of navies burnt at seas; No noise of late-spawn'd tittyries; No closet plot, or open vent, That frights men with a parliament; No new device or late-found trick To read by the stars the kingdom's sick; No gin to catch the state, or wring The freeborn nostril of the king, We send to you; but here a jolly Verse, crown'd with ivy and with holly, That tells of winter's tales and mirth, That milkmaids make about the hearth, Of Christmas sports, the wassail-bowl, Thatś tost up, after fox-i'-th'-hole; Of blind-man-buff, and of the care That young men have to shoe the mare; Of Twelfth-tide cakes, of peas and beans, Wherewith you make those merry scenes, Whenas ye choose your king and queen, And cry out: Hey, for our town green; Of ash-heaps, in the which ye use Husbands and wives by streaks to choose; Of crackling laurel, which fore-sounds A plenteous harvest to your grounds: Of these and such-like things for shift, We send instead of New-Year's gift. Read then, and when your faces shine With buxom meat and cap'ring wine, Remember us in cups full crown'd, And let our city-health go round, Quite through the young maids and the men, To the ninth number, if not ten; Until the fired chesnuts leap For joy to see the fruits ye reap From the plump chalice and the cup, That tempts till it be tossed up; Then as ye sit about your embers, Call not to mind those fled Decembers, But think on these that are t' appear As daughters to the instant year: Sit crown'd with rosebuds, and carouse Till Liber Pater twirls the house About your ears; and lay upon The year your cares that's fled and gone. And let the russet swains the plough And harrow hang up, resting now; And to the bagpipe all address, Till sleep takes place of weariness. And thus, throughout, with Christmas plays Frolic the full twelve holidays.

Tittyries, i.e., the Tityre-tues; see Note. Fox-i'-th'-hole, a game of hopping. To shoe the mare, or, shoe the wild mare, a Christmas game. Buxom, tender. Liber Pater, Father Bacchus.

320. MATINS; OR, MORNING PRAYER.

When with the virgin morning thou dost rise, Crossing thyself, come thus to sacrifice; First wash thy heart in innocence, then bring Pure hands, pure habits, pure, pure everything. Next to the altar humbly kneel, and thence Give up thy soul in clouds of frankincense. Thy golden censers, fill'd with odours sweet, Shall make thy actions with their ends to meet.

321. EVENSONG.

Begin with Jove; then is the work half done, And runs most smoothly when 'tis well begun. Jove's is the first and last: the morn's his due, The midst is thine; but Jove's the evening too; As sure a matins does to him belong, So sure he lays claim to the evensong.

322. THE BRACELET TO JULIA.

Why I tie about thy wrist, Julia, this my silken twist; For what other reason is't, But to show thee how, in part, Thou my pretty captive art? But thy bondslave is my heart; 'Tis but silk that bindeth thee, Knap the thread and thou art free: But 'tis otherwise with me; I am bound, and fast bound, so That from thee I cannot go; If I could, I would not so.

323. THE CHRISTIAN MILITANT.

A man prepar'd against all ills to come, That dares to dead the fire of martyrdom; That sleeps at home, and sailing there at ease, Fears not the fierce sedition of the seas; That's counter-proof against the farm's mishaps, Undreadful too of courtly thunderclaps; That wears one face, like heaven, and never shows A change when fortune either comes or goes; That keeps his own strong guard in the despite Of what can hurt by day or harm by night; That takes and re-delivers every stroke Of chance (as made up all of rock and oak); That sighs at others' death, smiles at his own Most dire and horrid crucifixion. Who for true glory suffers thus, we grant Him to be here our Christian militant.

324. A SHORT HYMN TO LAR.

Though I cannot give thee fires Glittering to my free desires; These accept, and I'll be free, Offering poppy unto thee.

325. ANOTHER TO NEPTUNE.

Mighty Neptune, may it please Thee, the rector of the seas, That my barque may safely run Through thy watery region; And a tunny-fish shall be Offered up with thanks to thee.

327. HIS EMBALMING TO JULIA.

For my embalming, Julia, do but this; Give thou my lips but their supremest kiss, Or else transfuse thy breath into the chest Where my small relics must for ever rest; That breath the balm, the myrrh, the nard shall be, To give an incorruption unto me.

328. GOLD BEFORE GOODNESS.

How rich a man is all desire to know; But none inquires if good he be or no.

329. THE KISS. A DIALOGUE.

1. Among thy fancies tell me this, What is the thing we call a kiss? 2. I shall resolve ye what it is.

It is a creature born and bred Between the lips (all cherry-red), By love and warm desires fed. Chor. And makes more soft the bridal bed.

2. It is an active flame that flies, First, to the babies of the eyes; And charms them there with lullabies. Chor. And stills the bride, too, when she cries.

2. Then to the chin, the cheek, the ear, It frisks and flies, now here, now there, 'Tis now far off, and then 'tis near. Chor. And here and there and everywhere.

1. Has it a speaking virtue? 2. Yes. 1. How speaks it, say? 2. Do you but this; Part your joined lips, then speaks your kiss Chor. And this love's sweetest language is.

1. Has it a body? 2. Aye, and wings With thousand rare encolourings; And, as it flies, it gently sings, Chor. Love honey yields, but never stings.