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While we may, the sweets of love;
THE SWEET NEGLECT. STILL to be neat, still to be drest,
As you were going to a feast; Still to be powder'd, still perfum'd; Lady, it is to be presum'd, Tho' art's hid causes are not found, All is not sweet; all is not sound. Give me a look, give me a face, That makes simplicity a grace; Robes loosely flowing, hair as free; Such sweet neglect more taketh me Than all th' adulteries of art That strike mine eye, but not mine heart. Vol. I.
HUE AND CRY AFTER CUPID. BEAUTIES, have ye seen a toy,
Called Love; a little boy Almost naked, wanton, blind, Cruel now, and then as kind ? If he be among ye, say ; He is Venus' run-away. She that will but now discover Where the winged wag doth hover, Shall to-night receive a kiss, How and where herself would wish : But who brings him to his mother, Shall have that kiss, and another. Marks he hath about him plenty, You may know him among twenty: All his body is a fire, And his breath a tlame entire: Which, being shot like lightning in, Wounds the heart, but not the skin. Wings he hath, which though ye clip, He will leap from lip to lip: Over liver, lights, and heart, Yet not stay in any part. And if chance his arrow misses, He will shoot himself in kisses. He doth bear a golden bow, And a quiver, hanging low, Full of arrows, which outbrave Dian's shafts, where, if he have Any head more sharp than other, With that first he strikes his mother. Still the fairest are his fuel,. When his days are to be cruel; Lovers' hearts are all his food, And his baths their warmest blood : Nought but wounds his hand doth season, And he hates none like to reason.
Trust him not; his words, though sweet,
SONG. SHALL I tell you whom I love ?
Hearken then a while to me :
As I now shall versifie,
As she scorns the help of art ;
As e'er yet embraced a heart; So much good, so truly tried, Some for less were deified.
Wit she hath, without desire
To make known how much she hath : And her anger flames no higher
Than may fitly sweeten wrath.
Reason masters every sense,
And her virtues grace her birth; Lovely as all excellence,
Modest in her most of mirth; Likelihood enough to prove Only worth could kindle love. Such she is; and if you know
Such a one as I have sung,
That she be but somewhile young;
BEAUMONT and FLETCHER.
! HENCE all
But only melancholy,
These are the sounds we feed upon.
In the Queen of Corinth.
Sorrow recalls not time that's gone;