Can he prize the tainted posies

Which on every breast are worn, That may pluck the virgin roses From their never-touched thorn ?

I can go rest

On her sweet breast,
That is the pride of Cynthia's train :

Then stay thy tongue,

Thy mermaid song
Is all bestow'd on me in vain.
He's a fool that basely dallies

Where each peasant mates with him ; Shall I haunt the thronged valleys, Whilst there's nobler hills to climb ?

No, no; though clowns

Are scar'd with frowns,
I know the best can but disdain :

And those I'll prove,

So will thy love
Be all bestow'd on me in vain.
I do scorn to vow a duty,

Where each lustful lad may woo :
Give me her, whose sun-like beauty
Buzzards dare not soar unto :
She, she it is

Affords that bliss
For which I would refuse no pain :

But such as you,

Fond fools, adieu; You seek to captive me in vain. Leave me then, you syrens, leave me,

Seek no more to work my harms; Crafty wiles cannot deceive me, Who am proof against your charms:

You labour may

To lead astray The heart that constant shall remain;

And I the while

Will sit and smile
To see you spend your time in vain.

BEN JONSON.

SONG.

COME, my Celia, let us prove,

While we may, the sweets of love;
Time will not be ours for ever,
He at length our good will sever;
Spend not then his gifts in vain,
Suns that set may rise again;
But if once we lose the light,
'Tis with us perpetual night.
Why should we defer our joys?
Fame and rumour are but toys;
Cannot we delude the eyes
Of a few poor household spies?
Or his easier ears beguile
So removed by our wile?
'Tis no sin love's fruits to steal;
But the sweet theft to reveal,

To be taken, to be seen,
These have crimes accounted been.

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.

E

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 flame 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,
Seldom with his heart do meet
All his practice is deceit,
Every gift is but a bait :
Not a kiss but poison bears,
And most treason's in his tears.
Idle minutes are his reign,
Then the straggler makes his gain,
By presenting maids with toys,
And would have you think them joys :
'Tis th' ambition of the elf
To have all childish as himself.
If by these ye please to know him,
Beauties, be not bice, but shew him,
Though ye had a will to hide him :
Now, we hope ye'll not abide him,
Since ye hear this falser's play,
And that be is Venus' run-away.

WILLIAM BROWN.

SONG. SHALL I tell you whom I love?

Hearken then a while to me:
And if such a woman move

As I now shall versifie,
Be assur'd 'tis she, or none,
That I love, and love alone.

Nature did her so much right,

As she scorns the help of art; In as many virtues dight,

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 know how much she hath : And her anger flames no higher

Than may fitly sweeten wrath.
Full of pity as may be,
Though, perhaps, not so to me.

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, Be she brown, or fair, or so,

That she be but somewhile young; Be assur'd 'tis she, or none, That I love, and love alone.