And fain those Æol's youth there wou'd their stay Have made, but forc'd by nature still to fly,

First did with puffing kifs thofe locks difplay:
She, fo difhevell'd, blush'd; from window I
With fight thereof cry'd out, O fair difgrace,
Let honour felf to thee grant highest place.

CIV.:

Envious wits, what hath been mine offence,
That with fuch pois'nous care my looks you mark,
That to each word, nay, figh of mine, you hark,
As grudging me my forrow's eloquence?
Ah! is it not enough, that I am thence,
Thence, fo far thence, that fcarcely any spark.
Of comfort dare come to this dungeon dark,
Where rig'rous exile locks up all my fenfe?

But if I by a happy window pafs,

If I but stars upon mine armour bear;
Sick, thirsty, glad (tho' but of empty glass:)
Your mortal notes straight my hid meaning tear
From out my ribs, and, puffing, prove that I
Do Stella love: fools! who doth it deny?

SONG.

WHO is it that this dark night,

Underneath my window plaineth?

It is one, who from thy fight,

Being (ah!) exil'd, difdaineth

Ev'ry other vulgar light.

Why,

Why, alas and are you be?

Be not yet thofe fancies obang'd? Dear, when you find change in me, Tho' from me you be eftrang'd, Let my change to ruin be.

Well, in abfence this will die;

:

Leave to fee, and leave to wonder. Abfence fure will help, if I

Can learn, how my felf to funder From what in my heart doth lie.

But time will these thoughts remove :

Time doth work what no man knowetb.

(Image-like, of faint perfection)

Poorly counterfeiting thee."

But your reafon's pureft light,

Bids you leave fuch minds to nourish. Dear, do reafon no such spite;

Never doth thy beauty flourish

More, than in thy reafon's fight...

But the wrongs love bears, will make
Love at length leave undertaking.

No, the more fools it doth fake,
In a ground of so firm making;
Deeper fill they drive the ftake.

Pence!

Peace! I think that fome give ear;
Come no more, left I get anger.
Blifs, I will my blifs forbear;
Fearing (Sweet) you to endanger
But my foul ball harbour there.

Well, begone; begone, I fay,

Left that Argus' eyes perceive you.
O unjust is fortune's fway ! -

Which can make me thus to leave you;
And from louts to run away.

CV.

Unhappy fight, and hath she vanish'd by
So near, in fo good time, fo free a place?
Dead glass, doft thou thy object fo embrace,
As what my heart ftill fees thou canst not fpy?
I fwear by her I love and lack, that I
Was not in fault, who bent thy dazling race,
Only unto the heav'n of Stella's face;

Counting but duft what in the way did lie.

But ceafe, mine eyes, your tears do witness well,
That you, guiltless thereof, your Nectar miss'd :
Curft be the page from whom the bad torch fell:

Curft be the night, which did your will refift;
Curft be the coach-man which did drive fo faft,

With no lefs curfe than abfence makes me tafte.

CVI. O abfent

CVI.

O abfent prefence, Stella is not here; False flattering hope, that with so fair a face Bare me in hand, that in this orphan place,

Stella, I fay, my Stella, fhould appear?

What fay'st thou now? where is the dainty cheer
Thou told'st mine eyes fhou'd help their famish'd case?
But thou art gone, now that felf-felt difgrace,
Doth make me most to wish thy comfort near.

But here I do ftore of fair ladies meet,
Who may with charm of conversation fweet,
Make in my heavy mould new thoughts to grow.
Sure they prevail as much with me, as he
That bad his friend, but then new maim'd, to be
Merry with him, and not think of his woe.

CVII.

Stella, fince thou fo right a Princess art
Of all the pow'rs which life bestows on me,
That e'er by them aught undertaken be,

They first refort unto that foveraign part;
Sweet, for a while give refpite to my heart,
Which pants as though it ftill fhou'd leap to thee:
And on my thoughts give thy lieutenancy,

To, this great caufe, which needs both use and art.

And as a Queen, who from her prefence fends
Whom she employs, difmifs from thee my wit,
Till it hath wrought what thy own will attends.
On fervants fhame oft masters blame doth fit;
O! let not fools in me thy works reprove,
And fcorning fay, See what it is to love?

K

CVIII. When

CVIII.

When forrow (ufing mine own fire's might) Melts down his lead into my boiling breast,

Thro' that dark furnace to my heart oppreft;

There fhines a joy from thee my only light:

But foon as thought of thee breeds my delight, And my young foul flutters to thee his neft; Moft rude defpair, my daily unbidden guest, Clips ftraight my wings, ftraight wraps me in his night:

And makes nie then bow down my head, and fay,
Ah! what doth Phœbus' gold that wretch avail,
Whom iron doors do keep from ufe of day?
So ftrangely (alas !) thy works in me prevail,
That in my woes for thee, thou art my joy,
And in my joys for thee, my only annoy.