That no more Summers best dresses, Be beholden For their golden Locks to Phœbus flaming Tresses. O deliver Love his Quiver, From thy Eyes he shoots his Arrowes, Where Apollo Cannot follow : Feathered with his Mothers Sparrows. O envy not (That we dye not) Those deer lips whose door encloses All the Graces In their places, Brother Pearles, and sister Roses. From these treasures Of ripe pleasures One bright smile to clear the weather. Earth and Heaven Thus made even, Both will be good friends together. The aire does wooe thee, Winds cling to thee, Might a word once fly from out thee; Storm and thunder Would sit under, And keep' silence round about thee. But if natures Common Creatures, So dear glories dare not borrow; Owes a duty, To my loving lingring sorrow. When my dying Life is flying; Those sweet Aires that often slew me ; Shall revive me, Or reprive me, And to many deaths renew me. The Cruell Maid. And cruell maid, because I see Nor the Snow continue pure; The Rose, the Violet, one day Silence. No; to what purpose should I speak? She cannot love me if she would; And to say truth, 'twere pity that she should. No, to the Grave thy sorrows beare, As silent as they will be there; Since that lov'd hand this mortal wound doth give, So handsomely the thing contrive, That she may guiltlesse of it live. So perish, that her killing thee May a chance Medley, and no murther be. 'Tis nobler much for me that I The censuring world will ne're refrain And yet this death of mine, I fear, When, sound in every other part, Her sacrifice is found without an Heart; His Misery. Water, water I espy: Come, and cool ye, all who fry Though a thousand showers be Happy you, who can have seas I have one, and she alone Of a thousand thousand known, Such an one, as will repeat Both the cause, and make the heat And run not thus like a young Roe away, Pursues thee (foolish Girle) 'tis onely I, If thou'll be pleas'd to garrison mine arms; Ile turn a Traytour? may these Roses here To palenesse shred, And Lillies stand disguised in new red, If that I lay ́ A snare, wherein thou wouldst not gladly stay; Doth slowly to his azure lodging run; And presently hee'l quit our Hemisphere; |