Pillars let some set up,
If so they please,

Here is my hope,

And my Pyramides.

SAFETY ON THE SHORE.

WHAT though the sea be calme? Trust to the shore; Ships have been drown'd, where late they danc't

before.

A PASTORALL UPON THE BIRTH OF PRINCE CHARLES, PRESENTED TO THE KING,

AND SET BY MR. NIC. LANIERE.

The Speakers, Mirtillo, Amintas, and Amarillis.

Amin. Good day, Mirtillo.

lesse;

Mirt. And to you no

And all faire signs lead on our shepardesse.

Amar. With all white luck to you. Mirt. But say,

What news

Stirs in our sheep-walk?

ewes,

Amin. None, save that my

My weathers, lambes, and wanton kids are well,

Smooth, faire, aud fat, none better I can tell:

Or that this day Menalchas keeps a feast

For his sheep-shearers.

Mirt. True, these are the

least.

But dear Amintas, and sweet Amarillis,

Rest but a while here by this bank of lillies;
And lend a gentle eare to one report

The country has. Amin. From whence? Amar. From whence? Mirt. The Court.

Three dayes before the shutting in of May,
(With whitest wool be ever crown'd that day!)

To all our joy, a sweet fac't child was borne,
More tender then the childhood of the morne.

Chor. Pan pipe to him, and bleats of lambs and
sheep,

Let lullaby the pretty prince asleep.

Mirt. And that his birth sho'd be more singular,

At noone of day was seene a silver star,

Bright as the wise mens torch, which guided them
To Gods sweet babe, when borne at Bethlehem;
While golden angels, some have told to me,
Sung out his birth with heav'nly minstralsie.

Amin. O rare! But is't a trespasse, if we three

Sho'd wend along his baby-ship to see?

Mirt. Not so, not so. Chor. But if it chance to prove

At most a fault, 'tis but a fault of love.

Amar. But deare Mirtillo, I have heard it told, Those learned men brought incense, myrrhe, and gold, From countries far, with store of spices sweet,

And laid them downe for offrings at his feet.

Mirt. 'Tis true, indeed; and each of us will bring

Unto our smiling and our blooming King,

A neat, though not so great an offering.

Amar. A garland for my gift shall be,
Of flowers ne'r suckt by th' theeving bee;

And all most sweet, yet all lesse sweet then he.
Amin. And I will beare along with you

Leaves dropping downe the honyed dew,
With oaten pipes, as sweet as new.

Mirt. And I a sheep-hook will bestow

To have his little King-ship know,

As he is Prince, he's shepherd too.

Chor. Come, let's away, and quickly let's be drest, And quickly give, the swiftest grace is best.

And when before him we have laid our treasures,

We'll blesse the babe, then back to countrie pleasures.

And so to solemnize

Love's, and my sacrifice.

THE BUBBLE. A SONG.

To my revenge, and to her desp'rate feares,
Flie, thou made bubble of my sighs and teares.
In the wild aire, when thou hast rowl'd about,
And, like a blasting planet, found her out;
Stoop, mount, passe by to take her eye, then glare
Like to a dreadfull comet in the aire:

Next, when thou dost perceive her fixed sight,

For thy revenge to be most opposite;

Then like a globe, or ball of wild-fire, flie,

And break thy self in shivers on her

eye.

A MEDITATION FOR HIS MISTRESSE.

You are a Tulip seen to-day,

But dearest, of so short a stay,

That where you grew, scarce man can say.

You are a lovely July-flower,

Yet one rude wind, or ruffling shower,
Will force you hence, and in an houre.

You are a sparkling Rose i' th' bud,
Yet lost, ere that chast flesh and blood
Can shew where you or grew or stood.

You are a full spread, faire-set Vine,
And can with tendrills love intwine,
Yet dry'd, ere you distill your wine.

You are like Balme, inclosed well
In amber, or some chrystall shell,
Yet lost ere you transfuse your smell.

You are a dainty Violet,

Yet wither'd, ere you can be set

Within the virgins coronet.

You are the queen

all flowers among,

But die you must, faire maide, ere long,

As he, the maker of this song.

THE BLEEDING HAND; OR, THE SPRIG OF EGLANTINE

GIVEN TO A MAID.

FROM this bleeding hand of mine,
Take this sprig of Eglantine.

Which, though sweet unto your smell,
Yet the fretfull bryar will tell,
He who plucks the sweets, shall prove
Many thorns to be in love.