Soft silken Howers,

Open Sunnes; shady Bowers,
Bove all; Nothing within that lowers.

I wish her store

Of wealth may leave her poore

Of wishes; and I wish no more.

Now if time knows,

That her whose radiant browes,
Weave them a Garlant of my vows.

Her that dare be,

What these lines wish to see,

I seek no further, it is she.

Such worth as this is,

Shall fix my flying wishes

And determine them to kisses.

Let her full glory,

(My fancies) fly before ye,

Be ye my fiction, but her my story.

Madam.

To a Lady.

Should I not smother this ambitious fire,
Which actuates my verse: it would aspire
To blear your vertues, in a glimmʼring line;
And your perfections in its measures twine.
But I have check'd my fancie Muse, nor dares
Dull poetry attempt to scan the spheares;

Or in a cloudy rime invaile the light,

Or court the trembling Watchmen of the night;
Some vulgar vertue, or a single blaze,

Might stand in verse; and would endure a gaze :
But when both Art, and Nature, shall agree

To summe them all in one Epitome :

When the perfections of both sexes, are

Lock'd in one female store-house; who shall dare

In an audacious rapture, to untwine

Into loose numbers, what heaven doth enshrine,
In one rich breast? Dazled invention say,
Canst thou embowell either India,

In one poor rime? Or can thy torch-light fire,
Shew us the Sunne; or any Star that's higher?
If thou wilt needs spend thy officious flame,
Do it in admiration: but disclaime

Thy power to praise: thy senders wishes, beare,
And be the Herauld of the new-born yeare:
Wish that each rising Sunne, may see her more
Happy, then when he rose the morne before;
And may, when e'r he gilds the envious West,
Leave her more blest, then when he grac'd the feast;

Wish higher yet, that her felicity

May equalize her vertues: Poetry

Thou art too low; canst thou not swell a straine

May reach my thoughts: good Madam since 'tis vain, (And yet my verse to kisse your hand presum'd)

Let it to be your sacrifice be doom'd:

And what it wants in true Poetique fire,

Let the flame adde, till so my Muse expire.

An Eccho.

Come Eccho I thee summon,
Tell me truly what is Woman?
If worne, she is a feather,
If woo'd she's frosty weather;
If wonne, the winde not slighter:
If weigh'd the Moon's not lighter:
If lain withall, she's apish:

If not laine with, she's snappish,

Come Eccho I thee summon,

Tell me once more what is Woman?
If faire, she's coy in courting,
If witty, loose in sporting,
If ready, she's but cloathing,

If naked, she's just nothing,
If not belov'd, she horns thee;
If lov'd too well, she scorns thee.

The Eccho still replyed,
But still me thought she lyed.

Then for my Mistresse sake,

I againe reply did make.
If worn, she is a jewell,
If woo'd, she is not cruell,
If wonne, no rock is surer,
If weigh'd, no gold is purer,
If laine withall, delicious;
If not, yet no way vitious.
False Eccho go, you lye.
See your errours I discry.

And for the second summon I
This for woman do reply.

If faire she's heavenly treasure,
If witty, she's all pleasure,
If ready, she is quaintest,

If not ready, she's daintiest,
If lov'd, her heart she spares not,

If not belov'd, she cares not.
False Eccho, go you lye.

See, your errours I discry.

To Fortune.

Since Fortune thou art become so kinde,

To give me leave to take my mind,

Of all thy store.

First it is needfull that I finde

Good meat and drink of every kinde;

I ask no more.

And then that I may well digest

Each severall morsel of the feast:

See thou my store.

To ease the care within my breast,
With a thousand pound at least :

I ask no more.

A well born and a pleasing Dame,
Full of beauty, void of shame ;

Let her have store

Of wealth, discretion, and good fame;

And able to appease my flame.

I ask no more.

Yet one thing more do not forget,
Afore that I doe doe this feat,

Forgot before;

That she a Virgin be, and neat,

Of whom two sonnes I may beget;

I aske no more.

Let them be Barons, and impart

To each a million for his part ;

I thee implore.

That when I long life have led,

I may have heaven when I am dead:

I ask no more.

A Dialogue between Icarus, and surprized Phillida.

Phil. Prette sweet-one look on me,
Faine I would thy captive be,
Bound by thee is Liberty.

Icar. Be not so unkindly wise,

For your looks will bribe my eyes,
To divulge where my heart lyes.

:

Phil. If they doe, thou need'st not feare,

By my innocence I sweare,

I'll but place another there.

Icar. That's my feare, I dare not prove,
Nor my resolution move.

'Cause I know you are in love.