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Straight some murder doth commit;
And your virtue doth'begin
To grow scrupulous of my sin,

When I talk to shew my wit.
Therefore, Madam, wear no cloud,
Nor to check my love grow proud,

For in sooth, I much do doubt 'Tis the powder on your hair, Not your breath, perfumes the air, And your

cloaths that set you out. Yet though truth has this confess'd, And I vow, I love in jest,

When I next begin to court, And protest an amorous flame, You will swear I in earnest am,

Bedlam! this is pretty sport.

TO ROSES, IN THE BOSOM OF CASTARA. YE, blushing Virgins ! happy are

In the chaste nunnery of her breasts; For he'd profane so chaste a fair,

Who e'er should call them Cupid's nests! Transplanted thus, how bright ye grow!

How rich a perfume do ye yield! In some close garden, cowslips so

Are sweeter than in the open field. In those white cloysters live secure

From the rude blasts of wanton breath,
Each hour more innocent and pure,

Till you shall wither into death.
Then, that which living gave you room,

Your glorious sepulchre shall be;
There wants no marble for a tomb,

Whose breast hath marble been to me!


not their prófane orgies hear,

Who but to wealth no altars rear; The soul's oft poison'd through the ear: Castara! rather seek to dwell In the silence of a private cell: Rich Discontent's a glorious hell! Yet, Hindlip doth not want extent Of room, though not magnificent, To give free welcome to content. There, shalt thou the early Spring That wealthy stock of nature bring, Of which the Sybil's books did sing : From fruitless palms shall honey flow; And barren Winter harvest show, While lilies in his bosom grow : No north-wind shall the corn infest, But the soft spirit of the East Our scent with perfum'd banquets feast : A Satyr, here and there, shall trip In hope to purchase leave to sip Sweet nectar from a Fairy's lip: The Nymphs, with quivers shall adorn Their active sides; and rouse the morn With the shrill music of the horn : Waken'd with which, and viewing thee, Fair Daphné her fair self shall free From the chaste prison of a tree; And with Narcissus, (to thy face Who humbly will ascribe all grace) Shall once again pursue the chase. So they whose wisdom did discuss Of these as fictious, shall in us Find they were more than fabulous !

FAIR Lady, when you see the grace

Of beauty in your looking-glass-
A stately forehead, smooth and high,
And full of princely majesty ;
A sparkling eye, no gem so fair,
Whose lustre dims the cyprian star;
A glorious cheek, divinely sweet,
Wherein both roses kindly meet;
A cherry lip that would entice
Even gods to kiss, at any price;
You think no beauty is so rare,
That with your shadow might compare,
That your reflection is alone
The thing that men most doat upon.
Madam, alas ! your glass doth lie;
And you are much deceiv'd, for I
A beauty know of richer grace.
Sweet! be not angry-'tis your face.
Hence then, o learn more mild to be,
And leave to lay your blame on me!
If me your real substance move,
When you so much your shadow love.
Wise nature would not let your eye
Look on her own bright majesty,
Which had you once but gaz'd upon,
You could except yourself love none:
What then you cannot love, let me
That face I can, you cannot see !

“ Now, you have what you love (you'll say), What then is left for me, I pray?" My face, sweet Heart ! if it please thee; That which you can, I cannot see. So either love shall gain his due, Your's, Sweet! in me, and mine in you!


COME, spur away,

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I have no patience for a longer stay,
But must go down
And leave the chargeable noise of this great

I will the country see
Where old simplicity

Tho' hid in grey,

Doth look more gay
Than foppery in plush and scarlet clad.

Farewel you city wits, that are

Almost at civil war; 'Tis time that I grow wise when all the world grows

More of my days
I will not spend to gain an idiot's praise :

Or to make sport

For some slight puny of the inns of court.
Then, worthy Stafford, say,
How shall we spend the day?

With what delights

Shorten the nights
When from this tumult we are got secure;

Where mirth with all her freedom goes,

Yet shall no finger lose Where every word is thought, and every thought

is pure.

There, from the tree
We'll cherries pluck, and pick the strawberry ;
And every day

Go see the wholesome girls make hay,
Whose brown hath lovelier grace
Than any painted face

That I do know
Hyde Park can shew

Where I had rather gain a kiss, than meet

(Though some of them, in greater state,

Might court my love with plate) The beauties of the Cheape, and wives of Lombard

street. But think upon Some other pleasures, these to me are none.

Why do I prate

Of women, that are things against my fate ? I never mean to wed That torture to my bed.

My muse is she

My love shall be: Let clowns get wealth and heirs !-when I am gone,

And the great bugbear, grisly death,

Shall take this idle breath,
If I a poem leave, that poem is my son.

Of this no more-
We'll rather taste the bright Pomona's store;

No fruit shall 'scape

Our palates, from the damson to the grape. Then full, we'll seek a shade, And hear what music's made;

How Philomel

Her tale doth tell,
And how the other birds do fill the quire,

The thrush and blackbird lend their throats,

Warbling melodious notes,
We will all sports enjoy, which others but desire.

Ours is the sky
Where,at what fowl we please,our hawks shalliy.

Nor will we spare
To hunt the crafty fox, or tim'rous hare;

But let our hounds run loose
In any ground they choose :

The buck shall fall,
The stag and all.

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