HESPERIDES.

THE ARGUMENT OF HIS BOOK.

I SING of brooks, of blossomes, birds, and bowers,
Of April, May, of June, and July-flowers;
I sing of May-poles, hock-carts, wassails, wakes,
Of bride-grooms, brides, and of their bridall-cakes.

I write of youth, of love, and have accesse
By these, to sing of cleanly wantonnesse ;

I sing of dewes, of raines, and, piece by piece,.
Of balme, of oyle, of spice, and amber-greece.
I sing of times trans-shifting; and I write
How roses first came red, and lillies white;
I write of groves, of twilights, and I sing
The court of Mab, and of the fairie king.
I write of Hell; I sing, and ever shall,
Of Heaven, and hope to have it after all.

TO HIS MUSE.

WHITHER, mad maiden, wilt thou roame?
Farre safer 'twere to stay at home;
Where thou mayst sit, and, piping please
The poore and private cottages.

Since coats and hamlets best agree

With this thy meaner minstralsie;

There with the reed thou mayst expresse

The shepherd's fleecie happinesse ;
And with thy Eclogues intermixe
Some smooth and harmlesse Beucolicks.
There, on a hillock, thou mayst sing
Unto a handsome shephardling;
Or to a girle, that keeps the neat,

With breath more sweet than violet.

There, there, perhaps, such lines as these

May take the simple villages;

But for the court, the country wit

Is despicable unto it.

Stay then at home, and doe not goe,

Or flie abroad to seeke for woe;
Contempts in courts and cities dwell;
No critick haunts the poore man's cell.
Where thou mayst hear thine own lines read

By no one tongue there censured;

That man's unwise will search for ill,

And may prevent it, sitting still.

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:

O 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 orgies? 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;

1 A javelin twind with ivy.

2 Songs to Bacchus.