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The Sun, from east to west who all doth see,
On this low globe sees nothing like to thee.
One phenix only liv'd ere thou wast born,
And Earth but did but one queen of love admire,
Three Graces only did the world adorn,
But thrice three Muses sung to Phæbus' lyre;
Two phenixes be now, love's queens are two,
Four Graces, Muses ten, all made by you.
For those perfections which the bounteous Heaven
To divers worlds in divers times assign'd,
With thousands more, to thee at once were given,
Thy body fair, more fair they made the mind :
And, that thy like no age should more behold,
When thou wast fram'd, they after brake the mould.
Sweet are the blushes on thy face which shine,
Sweet are the flames which sparkle from thine eyes,
Sweet are his torments who for thee doth pine,
Most sweet his death for thee who sweetly dies;
For, if he die, he dies not by annoy,
But too much sweetness and abundant joy.
What are my slender lays to show thy worth !
How can base words a thing so high make known?
So wooden globes bright stars to us set forth,
So in a crystal is Sun's beauty shown:
More of thy praises if my muse should write,
More love and pity must the same indite.
“ Tae angry winds not aye
Do cuff the roaring deep;
And though Heavens often weep,
Yet do they smile for joy when comes dismay;
Frosts do not ever kill the pleasant flow'rs ;
And love hath sweets when gone are all the sours.".
This said a shepherd, closing in his arms
His dear, who blush'd to feel love's new alarms.
The greatest gift that from their lofty thrones
The all-governing pow'rs to man can give,
Is, that he never breathe; or, breathing once,
A suckling end his days, and leave to live;
For then he neither knows the woe nor joy
Of life, nor fears the Stygian lake's annoy.
SWEET wanton thought, who art of beauty born,
And who on beauty feed'st, and sweet desire,
Like taper fly, still circling, and still turn
About that flame, that all so much admire,
That heavenly fair which doth outblush the morn,
Those ivory hands, those threads of golden wire,
Thou still surroundest, yet dar'st not aspire;
Sure thou dost well that place not to come near,
Nor see the majesty of that fair court;
For if thou saw'st what wonders there resort,
The pure intelligence that moves that sphere,
Like souls ascending to those joys above,
Back never wouldst thou turn, nor thence remove,
What can we hope for more; what more enjoy?
Since fairest things thus soonest have their end,
And as on bodies shadows do attend,
Soon all our bliss is follow'd with annoy:
Yet she's not dead, she lives where she did love ;
Her memory on Earth, her soul above.
Against the king, sir, now why would you fight?
Forsooth, because he dubb’d me not a knight,
And ye, my lords, why arm ye 'gainst king Charles ?
Because of lords he would not make us earls.
Earls, why do ye lead forth these warlike bands?
Because we will not quit the church's lands.
Most holy churchmen, what is your intent?
The king our stipends largely did augment.
Commons to tumult thus why are you driven?
Priests us persuade it is the way to Heaven.
Are these just cause of war; good people, grant?
Ho! Plunder! thou ne'er swore our covenant.
When lately Pym descended into Hell,
Ere he the cups of Lethe did carouse,
What place that was, he called loud to tell ;
To whom a devil -" This is the Lower House."
OP AY ANTI-COVEXANTER, OR MALIGNANT.
Worlu) you know these royal knaves,
Of freemen would turn us slaves;
Who our union do defame
With rebellion's wicked name
Read these verses, and ye 'll spring 'em
Then on gibbets straight cause hing 'em
They complain of sin and folly ;
In these times so passing holy,
They their substance will not give,
Libertines that we may live.
Hold those subjects too, too wanton,
Under an old king dare canton.
Neglect they do our circ'lar tables,
Scorn our acts and laws as fables;
Of our battles talk but meekly,
With four sermons pleasʼd are weekly ;
Swear king Charles is neither papist,
Arminian, Lutheran, or atheist.
But that in his chamber-pray’rs,
Which are pour'd ʼmidst sighs and tears,
To avert God's fearful wrath,
Threat’ning us with blood and death ;
Persuade they would the multitude,
This king too holy is and good.
They avouch we'll weep and groan
When hundred kings we serve for one ;
That each shire but blood affords,
To serve th' ambition of young lords ;
Whose debts ere now had been redoubled,
If the state had not been troubled.
Slow they are our oath to swear,
Slower for it arms to bear :