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Nor of a rare seraphic voice,
That like an angel sings;

Though if I were to take my choice,
I would have all these things.
But if that thou wilt have me love,
And it must be a she;

The only argument can move
Is, that she will love me

The glories of your ladies be
But metaphors of things,
And but resemble what we see
Each common object brings.
Roses, outred their lips and cheeks,
Lilies their whiteness stain:
What fool is he that shadow seeks,
And may the substance gain!
Then if thou'lt have me love a lass,
Let it be one that's kind,

Else I'm a servant to the glass-
That's with Canary lin❜d.

TO HIS DEAREST BEAUTY.

THOMAS STANLEY.

Born about 1624-Died in 1678.

When, dearest beauty, thou shalt pay
Thy faith and my vain hope away
To some dull soul, that cannot know
The worth of that thou dost bestow;

Lest with my sighs and tears I might
Disturb thy unconfin'd delight,
To some dark shade will I retire,
And there forgot by all, expire.

Thus, whilst the difference thou shalt prove
Betwixt a feign'd and real love,

Whilst he, more happy, but less true,
Shall reap those joys I did pursue,
And with those pleasures crowned be
By fate, which love design'd for me,
Then thou perhaps thy self will find
Cruel too long or too soon kind.

IN PRAISE OF LOVE AND WINE

ROBERT HЕАТН.

Born about 1625.

Invest my head with fragrant rose,
That on fair Flora's bosom grows!
Distend my veins with purple juice,
That mirth may through my soul diffuse!
'Tis wine and love, and love in wine
Inspires our youth with flames divine.

Thus, crown'd with Paphian myrtle, I
In Cyprian shades will bathing lie;
Whose snow if too much cooling, then
Bacchus shall warm my blood again.

'Tis wine and love, and love in wine
Inspires our youth with flames divine.

[From

Life's short, and winged pleasures fly;
Who mourning live, do living die.
On down and floods then, swan-like, I
Will stretch my limbs, and singing die.
'Tis wine and love, and love in wine,
Inspires our youth with flames divine.

Clarastella," a collection of Poems in one volume. 12mo.

1650.]

POOR CHLORIS WEPT.

Poor Chloris wept, and from her eyes
The liquid tears ran trickling down;
(Such melting drops might well suffice
To pay a ransom for a crown)

And as she wept, she sighing said,
"Alas for me, unhappy maid
That by my folly am betray'd!"

But when those eyes (unhappy eyes!)
Met with the object of my woe,
Methought our souls did sympathize,
And it was death to hear a no.
He woo'd; I granted, then befell
My shame, which I do shame to tell :—
O that I had not lov'd so well!

And had I been so wise as not
T'have yielded up my virgin fort;
My name had been without a blot,

And thwarted th' envy of report.

But now my shame hath made me be
A butt for time to point at me,
And but a mark of misery.

But now in sorrow must I sit,

And pensive thoughts possess my breast; My silly soul with cares is split,

And grief denies me wonted rest.

Come then, black night, and screen me round,

That I

may never more be found,

Unless in tears of sorrow drown'd!

"From The British Miscellany,' where it is stated to be copied

from an ancient MS." Geo. Ellis.

I find it in a little collection called

Westminster Drollery, published in 1671, p. 68.]

DULCINA.

As at noon Dulcina rested
In her sweet and shady bower,
Came a shepherd, and requested
In her lap to sleep an hour.
But from her look

A wound he took

So deep, that for a farther boon,
The nymph he prays;

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Whereto she says,

Forego

me now, come to me soon."

But in vain she did conjure him

To depart her presence so,

Having

a
And but one to bid him go;

thousand tongues t' allure him,

When lips invite,

And eyes delight,

And cheeks as fresh as rose in June,
Persuade delay,

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What boots to say,

Forego me now come to me soon.”

He demands, what time for pleasure
Can there be more fit than now?
She says-night gives love that leisure,
Which the day doth not allow.
He says the sight,
Improves delight;

Which she denies;

In Venus' plays

66

nights murky noon

Makes bold," she says,

Forego me now come to me soon."

But what promise, or profession,

From his hands could purchase scope? Who would sell the sweet possession Of such beauty for a hope?

Or for the sight

Of lingering night,

Forego the present joys of noon?

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Tho' ne'er so fair

Her speeches were,

Forego me now, come to me soon?"

How at last agreed these lovers ?

She was fair, and he was young:

The tongue may tell what th' eye discovers, Joys unseen are never sung.

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