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.

TO THE LARK.

GOOD speed, for I this day
Betimes my mattens say;
Because I doe

Begin to wooe.*

Sweet singing Lark,
Be thou the clark,
And know thy when

To say, Amen.

And if I prove
Blest in my love,
Then thou shalt be
High-priest to me,
At my returne,
To incense burne;

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 EGLAN-
TINE 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
Many thorns to be in love.

prove

Q

LYRICK FOR LEGACIES.

GOLD I've none, for use or show,
Neither silver to bestow

At

my death; but thus much know,

That each lyrick here shall be

Of my love a legacie,

Left to all posteritie.

Gentle friends, then doe but please

To accept such coynes as these,
As my last remembrances.

A DIRGE UPON THE DEATH OF THE RIGHT VALIANT

LORD BERNARD STUART.

HENCE, hence, profane; soft silence let us have,
While we this Trentall sing about thy grave.

Had wolves or tigers seen but thee,
They wo'd have shew'd civility;
And in compassion of thy yeeres,

Washt those thy purple wounds with tears.

But since th'art slaine, and in thy fall

The drooping kingdome suffers all.

Chor. This we will doe; we'll daily come

And offer tears upon thy tomb;
And if that they will not suffice,

Thou shalt have soules for sacrifice.

Sleepe in thy peace, while we with spice perfume thee, And cedar wash thee, that no times consume thee.

Live, live thou dost, and shalt, for why?
Soules do not with their bodies die ;

Ignoble off-springs, they may fall

Into the flames of funerall:

When as the chosen seed shall spring

Fresh, and for ever flourishing.

Chor. And times to come shall, weeping, read thy glory,

Lesse in these marble stones, then in thy story.

TO PERENNA, A MISTRESSE.

DEARE Perenna, prethee come,

And with smallage dresse my tomb;

Adde a cypresse sprig thereto

With a teare, and so adieu.

GREAT BOAST, SMALL ROST.

OF flanks and chines of beefe doth Gorrell boast
He has at home; but who tasts boil'd or rost?
Look in his brine-tub, and you shall find there
Two stiffe blew pigs-feet, and a sow's cleft eare.