'Tis not Apollo can, or those thrice three
Castalian sisters, sing, if wanting thee.
Horace, Anacreon both had lost their fame,
Had'st thou not fill'd them with thy fire and flame.
Phoebean splendour! and thou Thespian spring!
Of which sweet swans must drink before they sing
Their true-pac'd numbers and their holy-layes,
Which makes them worthy cedar and the bayes.
But why? why longer doe I gaze upon
Thee with the eye of admiration?
Since I must leave thee; and enforc'd, must say
To all thy witching beauties, goe away.
But if thy whimpring looks doe ask me why?
Then know, that nature bids thee goe, not I.
'Tis her erroneous self has made a braine
Uncapable of such a soveraigne
As is thy powerfull selfe. Prethee not smile;
Or smile more inly; lest thy looks beguile
My vowes denounc'd in zeale, which thus much
show thee,
That I have sworn, but by thy looks to know thee.
Let others drink thee freely, and desire
Thee and their lips espous'd; while I admire
And love thee; but not taste thee. Let
my muse
Faile of thy former helps; and onely use
Her inadult'rate strength: what's done by me
Hereafter shall smell of the lamp, not thee.
GLASCO had none, but now some teeth has got ;
Which though they furre, will neither ake or rot.
Six teeth he has, whereof twice two are known
Made of a haft, that was a mutton-bone,
Which not for use, but meerly for the sight,
He weares all day, and drawes those teeth at
night.
UPON MRS. ELIZ. WHEELER, UNDER THE NAME OF AMARILLIS.
SWEET Amarillis, by a spring's
Soft and soule-melting murmurings,
Slept; and thus sleeping, thither flew
A robin-red brest; who at view,
Not seeing her at all to stir,
Brought leaves and mosse to cover her:
But while he, perking, there did prie
About the arch of either eye,
The lid began to let out day;
At which poore robin flew away;
And seeing her not dead, but all disleav'd;
He chirpt for joy, to see himself disceav'd.
FOR second course, last night, a custard came
To th' board, so hot, as none co'd touch the same:
Furze, three or foure times with his cheeks did
blow
Upon the custard, and thus cooled so,
It seem'd by this time to admit the touch;
But none co'd eate it, 'cause it stunk so much.
FOLD now thine armes, and hang the head,
Like to a lillie withered:
Next, look thou like a sickly moone,
Or like Jocasta in a swoone.
Then weep, and sigh, and softly goe,
Like to a widdow drown'd in woe:
Or like a virgin full of ruth,
For the lost sweet-heart of her youth:
And all because, faire maid, thou art
Insensible of all my smart ;
And of those evill dayes that be
Now posting on to punish thee.
The gods are easie, and condemne
All such as are not soft like them.
MAKE me a heaven, and make me there
Many a lesse and greater spheare;
Make me the straight and oblique lines,
The motions, lations, and the signes;
Make me a chariot and a sun,
And let them through a zodiac run.
Next, place me zones and tropicks there,
With all the seasons of the yeare;
Make me a sun-set, and a night,
And then present the mornings-light
Cloath'd in her chamlets of delight.
To these, make clouds to poure downe raine,
With weather foule, then faire againe.
And when, wise artist, that thou hast
With all that can be this heaven grac't,
Ah! what is then this curious skie,
But onely my Corinna's eye?
UPON THE MUCH LAMENTED MR. J. WARR.
WHAT wisdome, learning, wit, or worth,
Youth, or sweet nature, co'd bring forth,
Rests here with him, who was the fame,
The volume of himselfe and name.
If, reader, then thou wilt draw neere,
And doe an honour to thy teare,
Weep then for him, for whom laments
Not one, but many monuments.
GRYLL eates, but ne're sayes grace: to speak the troth,
Gryll either keeps his breath to coole his broth, Or else because Grill's roste do's burn his spit, Gryll will not therefore say a grace for it.
THE SUSPITION UPON HIS OVER-MUCH FAMILIARITY WITH A GENTLEWOMAN.
AND must we part, because some say
Loud is our love, and loose our play,
And more then well becomes the day?
Alas for pitty! and for us
Most innocent, and injur'd thus.
Had we kept close, or play'd within,
Suspition now had been the sinne,
And shame had follow'd long ere this,
T'ave plagu'd what now unpunisht is.
But we, as fearlesse of the sunne
As faultlesse, will not wish undone
What now is done, since where no sin
Unbolts the doore, no shame comes in.
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