Here's the spring-head of pleasures' flood; Here's wealthy Nature's treasury Where all the riches lie that she Has coin'd and stamp'd for good! Pride and ambition here Only in far-fetch'd metaphors appear; Here nought but winds can hurtful murmurs scatter; And nought but Echo flatter. The Gods, when they descended, hither From heaven did always choose their way: That 'tis the way to thither. How happy here should I And one dear She live, and embracing die ! I should have then this only fear: AGAINST ADORNMENT. Tyrian dye why do you wear, Pure linens o'er your skin, Your skin that's whiter far, Casting a dusky cloud before a star? Why bears your neck a golden chain? With gems why do you shine? They, neighbours to your eyes, Show but like Phosphor when the Sun doth rise. I would have all my Mistress' parts Or One whose nights give less She's fair whose beauty only makes her gay. For 'tis not buildings make a Court, Or pomp, but 'tis the King's resort: Himself and in a shower Hide such bright Majesty, Less than a golden one it can not be. AN EPITAPH. Underneath this marble stone Lie two Beauties join'd in One: Two whose souls, being too divine For earth, in their own sphere now shine; SIR EDWARD SHERBURNE. 1618-1702. THE HEART-MAGNET. Shall I, hopeless, then pursue A fair shadow that still flies me? Shall I still adore and woo A proud heart that does despise me? I a constant love may so, But, alas! a fruitless show. Shall I by the erring light Of two crossing stars still sail, That do shine, but shine in spite, Not to guide but make me fail? Whilst these thoughts my soul possess So a pilot, bent to make Search for some unfound-out land, Does with him the magnet take, Sailing to the unknown strand : But that, steer which way he will, To the loved North points still. FALSE LYCORIS. Lately, by clear Thames, his side, With the pen of her white hand These words printing on the sand : None Lycoris doth approve But Mirtillo for her love. Ah, false Nymph! those words were fit In sand only to be writ: For the quickly rising streams Of Oblivion and the Thames In a little moment's stay From the shore wash'd clean away And Mirtillo from thy breast. RICHARD BROME. 16**-1652. BEGGARS' SONG. Come! come away! the Spring, In field, in grove, on hill, in dale; Who in her sweetness strives to outdo Cuckoo! cries he; jug, jug, jug! sings she: From bush to bush, from tree to tree. Come away! Why do we stay? ALEXANDER BROME. 1620-1666. THE RESOLVE. Tell me not of a face that's fair, Nor lip and cheek that's red, That like an angel sings! Though, if I were to take my choice, I would have all these things. The only argument can move Is that she will love me. The glories of your ladies be Each common object brings: Else I'm a servant to the glass PALINODE. No more, no more of this, I vow! There was a time when I begun, He physic's use doth quite mistake, My heat of youth, and love, and pride, And made me then converse with toys And dabble in their flood. |