SONG.

BY SIR JOHN SUCKLING.

WHY so pale and wan, fond lover?

Prithee, why so pale?

Will, when looking well can't move her, Looking ill prevail ?

Prithee, why so pale?

Why so dull and mute, young sinner?

Prithee, why so mute?

Will, when speaking well can't win her,

Saying nothing do't?

Prithee, why so mute ?

Quit, quit for shame; this will not move,

This cannot take her:

If of herself she will not love,

Nothing can make her.

The devil take her!

BY THOMAS NABBES.

WHAT though with figures I should raise

Above all height my mistress' praise;
Calling her cheek a blushing rose,
The fairest June did e'er disclose;
Her forehead, lilies; and her eyes,
The luminaries of the skies;

That on her lips ambrosia grows,
And from her kisses nectar flows?--

Too great hyperboles ! unless

She loves me, she is none of these.

But, if her heart and her desires

Do answer mine with equal fires,
These attributes are then too poor.---
She is all these, and ten times more.

LESBIA ON HER SPARROW.

BY WILLIAM CARTWRIGHT.

TELL me not of joy! there's none,
Now my little sparrow's gone :

He, just as you,

Would sigh and woo,

He would chirp and flatter me;

He would hang the wing awhile,

Till at length he saw me smile, Lord! how sullen he would be!

He would catch a crumb, and then
Sporting let it go again;

He from my lip

Would moisture sip,

He would from my trencher feed;

Then would hop, and then would run,
And cry Phillip when he'd done;

Oh! whose heart can choose but bleed ?

Oh! how eager would he fight,

And ne'er hurt though he did bite.

No morn did pass,

But on my glass

He would sit, and mark, and do
What I did; now ruffle all

His feathers o'er, now let them fall, And then straightway sleek them too.

Whence will Cupid get his darts
Feather'd now, to pierce our hearts?
A wound he may,

Not love, convey,

Now this faithful bird is gone.

Oh! let mournful turtles join

With loving redbreasts, and combine To sing dirges o'er his stone.

SONG.

BY WALLER.

Go, lovely Rose !

Tell her that wastes her time and me,

That now she knows,

When I resemble her to thee,

How sweet and fair she seems to be.

Tell her that's young

And shuns to have her graces spied,

That, hadst thou sprung

In desarts where no men abide,

Thou must have uncommended died.

Small is the worth

Of Beauty from the light retired :

Bid her come forth,

Suffer herself to be desired,

And not blush so to be admired.

Then die! that she

The common fate of all things rare
May read in thee;

How small a part of time they share
That are so wondrous sweet and fair!

TO CASTARA.

BY HABINGTON.

GIVE me a heart, where no impure

Disorder'd passions rage,

Which jealousy doth not obscure,

Nor vanity t' expence engage;

N