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For that's no love, but gratitude, and all
Loves, that from fortunes rise, with fortunes fall.

If friends or birth created love within me,

Then princes I'll adore,

And only scorn the poor:
If virtue or good parts could win me,

I'd turn Platonic, and ne'er vex

My soul with difference of sex;
And he that loves his lady 'cause she's fair,
Delights his eye, so loves himself, not her.

Reason and wisdom are to love high treason;

Nor can he truly love,

Whose flame's not far above, And far beyond his wit or reason ;

Then ask no reason for my fires,

For infinite are my desires.
Something there is moves me to love, and I
Do know I love, but know not how, nor why.

ADVICE TO CELA.

My lovely Celia, whilst thou dost enjoy
Beauty and youth, be sure to use 'em,
And be not fickle, be not coy,
Thyself or lovers to destroy.

Since all those lilies and those roses,
Which lovers find, or love supposes,

To flourish in thy face,

Will tarry but a little space.
And youth and beauty are but only lent
To you by Nature, with this good intent,

You should enjoy, but not abuse 'em, And when enjoyments may be had, not fondly to

refuse 'em.

Let lovers' fatt'ry ne'er prevail with thee;

Nor their old compliments deceive thee,
Their vows and protestations be
Too often mere hypocrisy.

And those high praises of the witty
May all be costly, but not fit ye,

Or if it true should be

Now what thy lovers say of thee, Sickness or age will quickly strip away Those fading glories of thy youthful May,

And of thy graces all bereave thee: Then those that thee ador'd before will slight thee,

and so leave thee.

Then while thou’rt fair and young, be kind, but wise,

Doat not, nor proudly use denying;
That tempting toy thy beauty lies,
Not in thy face, but lovers' eyes.

And he that doats on thee may smother
His love, i'th' beauty of another,

Or flying at all game

May quench, or else divert his flame. His reason too may chance to interpose, And love declines as fast as reason grows.

There is a knack to find love's treasures : Too young, too old, too nice, too free, too slow,

destroys your pleasures.

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ON CANARY.

Or all the rare juices,

That Bacchus or Ceres produces,
There's none that I can, nor dare I
Compare with the princely Canary.

For this is the thing
That a fancy infuses,

This first got a king,

And next the nine Muses; 'Twas this made old poets so sprightly to sing, And fill all the world with the glory and fame

on't, They Helicon call'd it, and the Thespian spring, But this was the drink, though they knew not

the name on't.

Our cider and perry,
May make a man mad, but not merry,

It makes people wind-mill pated,
And with crackers sophisticated;

And your hops, yest, and malt,
When they're mingled together,

Makes our fancies to halt,
Or reel any whither;
It stuffs up our brains with froth and with yest,
That if one would write but a verse for a bell-

man,
He must study till Christmas for an eight shilling

jest, These liquors wont raise, but drown and o'er

whelm man.

Our drowsy metheglin
Was only ordain'd to inveigle in

The novice, that knows not to drink yet,

But is fuddled before he can think it : And your claret and white

Have a gunpowder fury,
They're of the French spright,

But they wont long endure you.
And your holiday muscadine, Alicant and tent,

Have only this property and virtue that's fit in't. They'll make a man sleep till a preachment be

spent, But we neither can warm our blood nor wit in't.

The bagrag and Rhenish
You must with ingredients replenish;
'Tis a wine to please ladies and toys with,
But not for a man to rejoice with,

But 'tis sack makes the sport,
And who gains but that flavour,

Though an abbess he court, In his high-shoes he'll have her; 'Tis this that advances the drinker and drawer: Though the father came to town in his hobnails

and leather, He turns it to velvet, and brings up an heir, In the town in his chain, in the field with his feather.

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What madness is't for him that's wise

To be so much self-hating?
Himself and his to sacrifice,

By meddling still with things too higli,
That don't concern but gratify

His lechery of prating.
What is't to us who's in the ruling power?
While they protect, we're bound t' obey,

But longer not an hour.

Nature made all alike at first,

But men that fram'd this fiddle
Of government made best and worst,
And high and low, like various strings,
Each man his several ditty sings,

To tune this state down diddle.
In this grand wheel, the world, we're spokes made
But that it may still keep its round,

(all,
Some mount while others fall.

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The blinded ruler, that by night

Sits with his host of bill-men,
With their chalk'd weapons, that affright
The wond'ring clown that haps to view
His worship and his gowned crew,

As if they sate to kill men.
Speak him but fair, he'll freely let you go ;
And those that on the high rope dance,

Will do the same trick too.

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