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Straight some murder doth commit;
When I talk to shew my wit.
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,
Till you shall wither into death.
Your glorious sepulchre shall be;
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 !
Of beauty in your looking-glass-
“ 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,
I have no patience for a longer stay,
Tho' hid in grey,
Doth look more gay
Farewel you city wits, that are
Almost at civil war; 'Tis time that I grow wise when all the world grows
Or to make sport
For some slight puny of the inns of court.
With what delights
Shorten the nights
Where mirth with all her freedom goes,
Yet shall no finger lose Where every word is thought, and every thought
There, from the tree
Go see the wholesome girls make hay,
That I do know
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,
Of this no more-
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;
Her tale doth tell,
The thrush and blackbird lend their throats,
Warbling melodious notes,
Ours is the sky
Nor will we spare
But let our hounds run loose
The buck shall fall,