Nor of a rare seraphic voice, Though if I were to take my choice, The only argument can move The glories of your ladies be Else I'm a servant to the glass- TO HIS DEAREST BEAUTY. THOMAS STANLEY. Born about 1624-Died in 1678. When, dearest beauty, thou shalt pay Lest with my sighs and tears I might Thus, whilst the difference thou shalt prove Whilst he, more happy, but less true, IN PRAISE OF LOVE AND WINE ROBERT HЕАТН. Born about 1625. Invest my head with fragrant rose, Thus, crown'd with Paphian myrtle, I 'Tis wine and love, and love in wine [From Life's short, and winged pleasures fly; Clarastella," a collection of Poems in one volume. 12mo. 1650.] POOR CHLORIS WEPT. Poor Chloris wept, and from her eyes And as she wept, she sighing said, But when those eyes (unhappy eyes!) And had I been so wise as not And thwarted th' envy of report. But now my shame hath made me be 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 A wound he took So deep, that for a farther boon, Whereto she says, Forego me now, come to me soon." But in vain she did conjure him To depart her presence so, Having a thousand tongues t' allure him, When lips invite, And eyes delight, And cheeks as fresh as rose in June, What boots to say, Forego me now come to me soon.” He demands, what time for pleasure 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? 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. |