Amar. But, deare Mirtillo, I have heard it told, Those learned men brought incense, myrrhe, and

gold,

From countries far, with store of spices sweet,
And laid them downe for offrings at his feet.

Mirt. "Tis true indeed; and each of us will

bring

Unto our smiling and our blooming king,
A neat, though not so great an offering.

Amar. A garland for my gift shall be,
Of flowers ne'er suckt by th'theeving bee,
And all most sweet; yet all lesse sweet then he.
Amint. And I will beare along with you
Leaves dropping downe the honeyed 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 plea-

sures.

TO THE LARK.

GOOD speed, for I this day
Betimes my mattens say,

To my revenge, and to her desp❜rate feares,
Flie, thou made bubble of my sighs and tears.
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 virgin's coronet.

You are the queen all flowers among,
But die you must, faire maid, ere long,
As he, the maker of this song.

THE BLEEDING HAND: OR, THE SPRIG OF EGLANTINE 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 prove
Many thorns to be in love.

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 posterity.

Gentle friends, then doe but please,

To accept such coynes as these,

A DIRGE UPON THE DEATH OF THE RIGHT VALIANT LORD, BERNARD STUART.

I.

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

II.

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 doe not with their bodies die.

Ignoble offsprings, they may fall

Into the flames of funerall,

When as the chosen seed shall spring

Fresh, and for ever flourishing.

Cho. And times to come shall, weeping, read thy

glory,

Lesse in these marble stones then in thy story.