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E your words made, good Sir! of Indian ware,


That you allow me them by so small rate?
Or do you courted Spartans imitate?

Or do you mean my tender ears to spare,
That to my questions you so total are?
When I demand of Phenix-Stella's state,
You say, forsooth, you left her well of late:
O God! think you, that satisfies my care?
I would know, whether she do sit or walk?

How cloth'd? How waited on? Sigh'd she, or smil'd?
Whereof? with whom? how often did she talk?
With what pastime, time's journey she beguil'd?
If her lips deign'd to sweeten my poor name?
Say all, and all well said, still say the same.

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LOVE, banish'd Heaven, on earth was held in scorn,

Wand'ring abroad in need and beggary;
And wanting friends, though of a goddess born,
Yet crav'd the alms of such as passed by:

I, like a man devout and charitable,

Clothed the naked, lodg'd this wand'ring Guest;
With sighs and tears still furnishing his table,
With what might make the miserable blest.
But this Ungrateful, for my good desert,
Intic'd my thoughts against me to conspire,
Who gave consent to steal away my heart;
And set my breast, his lodging, on a fire.

Well, well my friends! when beggars grow thus bold,
No marvel, then, though charity grow cold!

DEAR! why should you command me to my rest,

When now the Night doth summon all to sleep?

Methinks, this time becometh lovers best;
Night was ordain'd together friends to keep.
How happy are all other living things,

Which, though the day disjoin by several flight,
The quiet evening yet together brings;
And each returns unto his Love at night!
O, thou that art so courteous else to all,
Why shouldst thou, Night! abuse me only thus;
That ev'ry creature to his kind do'st call,
And yet 'tis thou dost only sever us?

Well could I wish it would be ever day,
If, when night comes, you bid me go away.



UPID and my Campaspe play'd


At cards for kisses; Cupid paid:

He stakes his quiver, bow and arrows,

His mother's doves, and team of sparrows;
Loses them too: then down he throws
The coral of his lip, the rose

Growing on 's cheek (but none knows how)
With these the chrystal of his brow,
And then the dimple of his chin;
All these did my Campaspe win.
At last he set her both his eyes,
She won, and Cupid blind doth rise.
O Love! has she done thus to thee?
What shall, alas! become of me!


Yes! O yes! if any maid

Whom leering Cupid has betray'd To frowns of spite, to eyes of scorn, And would in madness now see torn The boy in pieces; let her como Hither, and lay on him her doom,

O yes! O yes! has any lost

A heart which many a sigh hath cost?
Is any cozen'd of a tear

Which, as a pearl, Disdain doth wear?
Here stands the thief; let her but come
Hither, and lay on him her doom.

Is any one undone by fire,

And turn'd to ashes through desire?
Did ever any lady weep,

Being cheated of her golden sleep,

Stol'n by sick thoughts? the pirate's found, And in her tears he shall be drown'd.

Read his indictment: let him hear

What he's to trust to: Boy, give car.



BEAUTY, sweet love, is like the morning dew,
Whose short refresh upon the tender green,
Cheers for a time, but till the sun doth shew,
And straight 'tis gone as it had never been.

Soon doth it fade that makes the fairest flourish,
Short is the glory of the blushing rose:
The hue which thou so carefully dost nourish,
Yet which at length thou must be forc'd to lose.

When thou, surcharg'd with burthen of thy years,
Shall bend thy wrinkles homeward to the earth,
And when in beauty's lease, expir'd, appears

The date of age, the calends of our deathBut ah! no more-this must not be foretold, For women grieve to think they must be old.

Must not grieve my love, whose eyes would read
Lines of delight whereon her youth might smile,
Flowers have time before they come to seed,
And she is young, and now must sport the while.

And sport (sweet maid) in season of these years,
And learn to gather flowers before they wither,
And where the sweetest blossom first appears,
Let love and youth conduct thy pleasures thither.
Lighten forth smiles to cheer the clouded air,
And calm the tempest which my sighs do raise;
Pity and smiles do best become the fair,

Pity and smiles must only yield thee praise.
Make me to say, when all my griefs are gone,
Happy the heart that sigh'd for such a one.

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LOOK, Delia, how we' esteem the half-blown rose,
The image of thy blush, and summer's honour;
Whilst yet her tender bud doth undisclose
That full of beauty time bestows upon her!
No sooner spreads her glory in the air,

But strait her wide-blown pomp comes to decline;
She then is scorn'd, that late adorn'd the fair:
So fade the roses of those cheeks of thine!
No April can revive thy wither'd flow'rs, a.

Whose springing grace adorns thy glory now;
Swift speedy Time, feather'd with flying hours,
Dissolves the beauty of the fairest brow.

Then do not thou such treasure waste in vain ;
But love now, whilst thou may'st be lov'd again.

ET others sing of knights and palladines,


In aged accents and untimely words,

Paint shadows in imaginary lines,

Which well the reach of their high wits records; But I must sing of thee, and those fair eyes! Authentic shall my verse in time to come;

When yet the' unborn shall say-"Lo,where she lies, Whose beauty made him speak, that else was dumb!" These are the arks, the trophies I erect,

That fortify thy name against old age;

And these thy sacred virtues must protect

Against the dark, and time's consuming rage. Though the' error of my youth they shall discover; Suffice they shew-I liv'd, and was thy lover!

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