THE ADMONITION.

SEEST thou those diamonds which she weares
In that rich carkanet,

Or those on her dishevel'd haires,

Faire pearles in order set?

Beleeve, young man, all those were teares
By wretched wooers sent,

In mournfull hyacinths and rue,

That figure discontent;

Which, when not warmed by her view,
By cold neglect each one

Congeal'd to pearle and stone;

Which precious spoiles upon her,

She weares as trophees of her honour.

Ah, then consider what all this implies;

She that will weare thy teares wo'd weare thine eyes.

TO HIS HONOURED KINSMAN, SIR WILLIAM SOAME.

EPIG.

I CAN but name thee, and methinks I call
All that have been, or are canonicall
For love and bountie, to come neare and see
Their many vertues volum'd up in thee;
In thee, brave man, whose incorrupted fame
Casts forth a light like to a virgin flame;
And as it shines, it throwes a scent about,
As when a rainbow in perfumes goes out.
So vanish hence, but leave a name as sweet
As Benjamin and Storax, when they meet.

ON HIMSELFE.

ASKE me why I do not sing
To the tension of the string,
As I did not long ago,

When my numbers full did flow?
Griefe, ay me! hath struck my lute,
And my tongue at one time mute.

TO LARR.

No more shall I, since I am driven hence,
Devote to thee my graines of frankinsence e;
No more shall I from mantle-trees hang downe,
To honour thee, my little parsly crown;
No more shall I, I feare me, to thee bring
My chives of garlick for an offering;

No more shall I, from henceforth, heare a quire
Of merry crickets by my country fire.

Go where I will, thou luckie Larr stay here,
Warme by a glitt'ring chimnie all the yeare.

THE DEPARTURE OF THE GOOD DÆMON.

WHAT can I do in poetry,

Now the good spirit's gone from me?
Why nothing now, but lonely sit,

And over-read what I have writ.

CLEMENCY.

FOR punishment in warre, it will suffice,
If the chiefe author of the faction dyes;

Let but few smart, but strike a feare through all:
Where the fault springs, there let the judgement fall.

HIS AGE, DEDICATED TO HIS PECULIAR FRIEND,

M. JOHN WICKES, UNDER THE NAME OF

POSTHUMUS.

AH Posthumus! our yeares hence flye,
And leave no sound, nor piety,

Or prayers, or vow

Can keepe the wrinkle from the brow;
But we must on,

As fate do's lead or draw us; none,
None, Posthumus, co'd ere decline
The doome of cruell Proserpine.

The pleasing wife, the house, the ground
Must all be left, no one plant found

To follow thee,

Save only the curst-cipresse tree;

A merry mind

Looks forward, scornes what's left behind;
Let's live, my Wickes, then, while we may,
And here enjoy our holiday.

Wave seen the past best times, and these
Will nere return; we see the seas,
And moons to wain,

But they fill up their ebbs again;
But vanisht man,

Like to a lilly lost, nere can,
Nere can repullulate, or bring
His dayes to see a second spring.

But on we must, and thither tend,
Where Anchus and rich Tullus blend
Their sacred seed;

Thus has infernall Jove decreed;

We must be made,

Ere long a song, ere long a shade.
Why then, since life to us is short,
Lets make it full up by our sport.

Crown we our heads with roses then, And 'noint with Sirian balme; for when We two are dead,

The world with us is buried.

Then live we free,

As is the air, and let us be

Our own fair wind, and mark each one

Day with the white and luckie stone.

We are not poore, although we have
No roofs of cedar, nor our brave

Baiæ, nor keep

Account of such a flock of sheep;

Nor bullocks fed

To lard the shambles; barbels bred
To kisse our hands; nor do we wish
For Pollio's lampries in our dish.

If we can meet, and so conferre,
Both by a shining salt-seller,

And have our roofe,

Although not archt, yet weather proofe, And seeling free,

From that cheape candle baudery;

We'le eate our beane with that full mirth,

As we were lords of all the earth.

Well, then, on what seas we are tost,

Our comfort is, we can't be lost.

Let the winds drive

Our barke, yet she will keepe alive

Amidst the deepes;

'Tis constancy, my Wickes, which keepes The pinnace up; which, though she erres I' th' seas, she saves her passengers.

Say, we must part; sweet mercy blesse Us both i' th' sea, camp, wildernesse ! Can we so farre

Stray to become lesse circular,