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, Mirt. "Tis true indeed; and each of us will bring Unto our smiling and our blooming king, Amar. A garland for my gift shall be, 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. sures. TO THE LARK. GOOD speed, for I this day To my revenge, and to her desp❜rate feares, 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, You are a sparkling rose i'th'bud, You are a full-spread faire-set vine, You are like balme inclosed well You are a dainty violet, Yet wither'd, ere you can be set You are the queen all flowers among, THE BLEEDING HAND: OR, THE SPRIG OF EGLANTINE GIVEN TO A MAID. FROM this bleeding hand of mine, Which though sweet unto your smell, LYRICK FOR LEGACIES. GOLD I've none, for use or show, At my death; but thus much know 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 Washt those thy purple wounds with tears. 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? 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. |