Nor think these ages that do hoarsely sing
The farting tanner and familiar king,

The dancing friar, tatter'd in the bush;
Those monstrous lies of little Robin Rush,
Tom Chipperfeild, and pretty lisping Ned,
That doted on a maid of gingerbread;
The flying pilchard and the frisking dace,
With all the rabble of Tim Trundell's race
(Bred from the dunghills and adulterous rhymes),
Shall live, and thou not superlast all times
No, no; thy stars have destin'd thee to see
The whole world die and turn to dust with thee.
He's greedy of his life who will not fall
Whenas a public ruin bears down all.

407. OF LOve.

I Do not love, nor can it be

Love will in vain spend shafts on me;
I did this godhead once defy,

Since which I freeze, but cannot fry.
Yet out, alas! the death's the same,
Kill'd by a frost or by a flame.

408. UPON HImself.

I DISLIK'D but even now;

Now I love I know not how.

Was I idle, and that while

Was I fir'd with a smile?
I'll to work, or pray; and then
I shall quite dislike again.

The farting tanner, etc., see Note.

409. ANOTHER.

LOVE he that will, it best likes me

To have my neck from love's yoke free.

413. THE MAD MAID'S SONG.

GOOD-morrow to the day so fair,
Good-morning, sir, to you;
Good-morrow to mine own torn hair,

Bedabbled with the dew.

Good-morning to this primrose too,

Good-morrow to each maid

That will with flowers the tomb bestrew Wherein my love is laid.

Ah! woe is me, woe, woe is me,

Alack and well-a-day!

For pity, sir, find out that bee
Which bore my love away.

I'll seek him in your bonnet brave,
I'll seek him in your eyes;

Nay, now I think they've made his grave
I' th' bed of strawberries.

I'll seek him there; I know ere this

The cold, cold earth doth shake him;

But I will go or send a kiss

By you, sir, to awake him.

Pray, hurt him not though he be dead,
He knows well who do love him,
And who with green turfs rear his head,
And who do rudely move him.

He's soft and tender (pray take heed);
With bands of cowslips bind him,
And bring him home; but 'tis decreed
That I shall never find him.

414. TO SPRINGS AND FOUNTAINS.
I HEARD Ye could cool heat, and came
With hope you would allay the same;
Thrice I have wash'd but feel no cold,
Nor find that true which was foretold.
Methinks, like mine, your pulses beat
And labour with unequal heat;
Cure, cure yourselves, for I descry
Ye boil with love as well as I.

415. UPON JULIA'S UNLACING HERSELF.

TELL if thou canst, and truly, whence doth come
This camphor, storax, spikenard, galbanum;
These musks, these ambers, and those other smells
(Sweet as the vestry of the oracles).

I'll tell thee: while my Julia did unlace
Her silken bodice but a breathing space,
The passive air such odour then assum'd,
As when to Jove great Juno goes perfum'd,
Whose pure immortal body doth transmit
A scent that fills both heaven and earth with it.

416. TO BACCHUS, A CANTIcle.

WHITHER dost thou whorry me,
Bacchus, being full of thee?

This way, that way, that way, this,
Here and there a fresh love is.
That doth like me, this doth please,
Thus a thousand mistresses

I have now; yet I alone,
Having all, enjoy not one.

417. THE LAWN.

WOULD I see lawn, clear as the heaven, and thin?
It should be only in my Julia's skin,

Which so betrays her blood as we discover
The blush of cherries when a lawn's cast over.

418. THE FRANKINCENSE.

WHEN my off'ring next I make,
Be thy hand the hallowed cake,
And thy breast the altar whence
Love may smell the frankincense.

421. TO SYCAMORES.

I'm sick of love, O let me lie
Under your shades to sleep or die!

Either is welcome, so I have

Or here my bed, or here my grave.

Whorry, carry rapidly.

Why do you sigh, and sob, and keep
Time with the tears that I do weep?
Say, have ye sense, or do you prove
What crucifixions are in love?

I know ye do, and that's the why
You sigh for love as well as I.

422. A PASTORAL SUNG TO THE KING:

MONTANO, SILVIO, AND MIRTILLO, SHEPHERDS. Mon. BAD are the times. Sil. And worse than they are we.

Mon. Troth, bad are both; worse fruit and ill the

tree:

The feast of shepherds fail. Sil. None crowns the

cup

Of wassail now or sets the quintell up;

And he who us'd to lead the country round,

Youthful Mirtillo, here he comes grief-drown'd. Ambo. Let's cheer him up. Sil. Behold him weeping-ripe.

Mir. Ah! Amaryllis, farewell mirth and pipe ; Since thou art gone, no more I mean to play To these smooth lawns my mirthful roundelay. Dear Amaryllis! Mon. Hark! Sil. Mark! Mir. This earth grew sweet

Where, Amaryllis, thou didst set thy feet.

Ambo. Poor pitied youth! Mir. And here the

breath of kine

And sheep grew more sweet by that breath of thine.

Quintell, quintain or tilting board.