So love's the Resultance of all the Graces
Which flow from a thousand several faces.

Chl. Hilas the Birds which chant in this Grove
Could we but know the language they use,
They would instruct us better in love,
And reprehend thy inconstant muse;

For love their breasts doth fill with such a fire,
That what they do chuse, bounds their desire.

Hil. Chloris this change the Birds do approve,
Which the warm season hither does bring,
Time from your self does further remove
You, then the Winter from the gay Spring;
She that like lightning shin'd whiles her face lasted,
Looks like an Oak being old, which lightning hath
blasted.

To be ingraven under the Queens Picture.

Such Helen was, and who can blame the Boy
That in so bright a flame consum'd his Troy?
But had like vertue shin'd in that fair Greek,
The amorous Shepherd had not dar'd to seek
Or hope for pity, but with silent moan
And better fate, had perished alone.

How the Violets came blew.

The Violets, as poets tell,

With Venus wrangling went

Whether the Violets did excell

Or she in sweetest scent;

But Venus having lost the day
Poor Girle, she fell on you,

And beat you so, as some do say

Her Blowes did make you blew.

Violets in a Ladyes Bosome,

Twice happy Violets, that first had birth

In the warm Spring, when no Frosts nip the Earth;
Thrice happy now, since you transplanted are
Unto the sweeter bosome of my Faire;

And yet poor Flowers, I pity your hard Fate;
You have but chang'd, not better'd your estate :
What boots it you t'have scap'd cold winters breath
To find like me, by flames a suddain death?

An old Man, to a young Maid.

Scorn me not fair, because you see

My hairs are white; what if they be?
Think not, 'cause in your Cheeks appear
Fresh Springs of Roses, all the year;
And mine, like Winter, wan and old,
My love like Winter, should be cold;
See in the Garland which you weare,
How the sweet blushing Roses there
With palest Lillyes do combine,

Be taught by them, and so lets joyn.

To the Wife, being married to that old man.

Since thou wilt needs, bewitch'd with some ill charms Be buryed in those monumental Arms,

All we can wish, is, may his Earth lye light Upon thy tender limbs, and so good night.

The Surprisal, or Loves Tyranny.

There's no dallying with Love
Though he be a Child, and blind;
Then let none the danger prove ;
Who would to himself be kind;
Smile he does, when thou dost play,
But his smiles to death betray.

Lately with the Boy I sported,
Love I did not, yet love feign'd;
Had no Mistriss, yet I courted;
Sigh I did, yet was not payned,
Till at last his love in jest
Prov'd in earnest, my unrest.

When I saw my fair one first,
In a feigned fire I burn'd;

But true flames my poor heart pierc'd,
When her eyes on mine she turn'd;
So a reall wound I took

For my counterfeited look.

Slighted love his skill to show
Struck me with a mortall Dart;
Then I learn'd that 'gainst his Bow,
Vain are all the helps of Art:

And thus captiv'd found that true,
Doth dissembled love pursue.

'Cause his fetters I disclaim'd,
Now the Tyrant faster bound me
With more scorching Bonds inflam'd,
'Cause in love so cold he found me;

And my sighs more scalding made,
'Cause with winds before they play'd.

Who love not then, O make no show;
Love's as ill deceived as Fate,

Fly the boy, hee'l cogge and woe;
Mock him, and hee'l wound thee strait:
They who dally, boast in vain ;

False love wants not real pain.

On the Eyes and Breasts of the Lady on whom he was inamoured.

Lady, on your eyes I gaz'd,

Then that two such fair worlds might
Have two suns to give them light.

On an old Batchelour.

Mop-ey'd I am, as some have said,
Because I've liv'd so long a Maid;
But grant that I should married be,
Should I one jot the better see?
No, I should think that marriage might
Rather than mend me, blind me quite.

On Love.

Love scorch'd my finger, but did spare

The burning of my heart,

To tell me that in love my share

Should be a little part;

Little I love, but if that he

Would but that heat recall,

That Joynt to Ashes burnt should be,

E're I would love at all.

Vertue improved by suffering.

'Tis but the body that blind fortune's spight Can chayn to earth, the nobler soul doth slight

Her servile bonds, and takes to Heaven her flight.

So heav'n through dark clouds lightneth, whiles the shade

Is but a file to its bright splendour made;

So starrs with greater lustre might invade.

J