TO HIS BOOKE.

WHILE thou didst keep thy candor undefil'd,
Deerely I lov'd thee, as my first-borne child;
But when I saw thee wantonly to roame
From house to house, and never stay at home;
I brake my bonds of love, and bad thee goe,
Regardlesse whether well thou sped'st or no.
On with thy fortunes then, whate're they be;
If good I'le smile, if bad I'le sigh for thee.

ANOTHER.

To read my booke, the virgin shie

May blush, while Brutus standeth by :

But when he's gone, read through what's writ, And never staine a cheeke for it.

ANOTHER.

WHO with thy leaves shall wipe, at need,
The place where swelling piles do breed ;
May every ill that bites or smarts,
Perplexe him in his hinder parts.

TO THE SOURE READER.

If thou dislik'st the piece thou light'st on first; Thinke that of all that I have writ, the worst.

But if thou read'st my booke unto the end, And still dost this and that verse reprehend: perverse man! if all disgustfull be,

The extreame scabbe take thee and thine for me.

TO HIS BOOKE.

COME thou not neere those men, who are like bread O're-leven'd; or like cheese o're-renetted.

WHEN HE WOULD HAVE HIS VERSES READ.

IN sober mornings, doe not thou reherse

The holy incantation of a verse ;

But when that men have both well drunke and fed,
Let my enchantments then be sung or read.
When laurell spirts i'th' fire, and when the hearth
Smiles to itselfe, and guilds the roofe with mirth ;
When up the Thyrse* is rais'd, and when the sound
Of sacred orgiest flyes around, around ;

When the Rose raignes, and locks with ointments shine,
Let rigid Cato read these lines of mine.

UPON JULIA'S RECOVERY.

DROOP, droop no more, or hang the head,

Ye roses almost withered;

* A javelin twind with ivy.

Songs to Bacchus.

Now strength and newer purple get,
Each here declining violet.

O primroses! let this day be
A resurrection unto ye;

And to all flowers ally'd in blood,
Or sworn to that sweet sisterhood.
For health on Julia's cheek hath shed
Clarret and creame commingled ;
And those, her lips, doe now appeare
As beames of corrall, but more cleare.

TO SILVIA TO WED.

LET us, though late, at last, my Silvia, wed;
And loving lie in one devoted bed.

Thy watch may stand, my minutes fly post haste;
No sound calls back the yeere that once is past.
Then sweetest Silvia, let's no longer stay;
True love, we know, precipitates delay.
Away with doubts, all scruples hence remove;
No man, at one time, can be wise, and love.

THE PARLIAMENT OF ROSES TO JULIA.

I DREAMT the Roses one time went
To meet and sit in Parliament ;
The place for these, and for the rest
Of flowers, was thy spotlesse breast.
Over the which a state was drawne
Of tiffanie, or cob-web lawne;

Then in that Parly all those powers
Voted the Rose, the queen of flowers;
But so, as that her self should be
The maide of honour unto thee.

NO BASHFULNESSE IN BEGGING.

To get thine ends, lay bashfulnesse aside;
Who feares to aske, doth teach to be deny'd.

THE FROZEN HEART.

I FREEZE, I freeze, and nothing dwels
In me but snow and ysicles;

For pitties sake, give your advice
To melt this snow, and thaw this ice.
I'le drink down flames, but if so be
Nothing but love can supple me;
I'le rather keepe this frost and snow,
Then to be thaw'd or heated so.

TO PERILLA.

Ан, my Perilla! dost thou grieve to see

Me, day by day, to steale away from thee?

Age cals me hence, and my gray haires bid come And haste away to mine eternal home;

"Twill not be long, Perilla, after this,

That I must give thee the supremest kisse :

Dead when I am, first cast in salt, and bring
Part of the creame from that religious spring,
With which, Perilla, wash my hands and feet;
That done, then wind me in that very sheet
Which wrapt thy smooth limbs, when thou didst implore

The gods protection but the night before;
Follow me weeping to my turfe, and there
Let fall a primrose, and with it a teare :
Then lastly, let some weekly strewings be
Devoted to the memory of me;

Then shall my ghost not walk about, but keep
Still in the coole and silent shades of sleep.

A SONG TO THE MASKERS.

COME down, and dance ye in the toyle

Of pleasures, to a heate;

But if to moisture, let the oyle
roses be your sweat.

Of

Not only to your selves assume

These sweets, but let them fly

From this to that, and so perfume
E'ne all the standers by.

As goddesse Isis, when she went
Or glided through the street;
Made all that touch't her, with her scent,
And whom she touch't, turne sweet.