Mee here the first perceiv'd, and here a morne
Of bright carnations did orefpreade her face,
Here did shee figh, there firft my hopes were borne,
And I first got a piedge of promis'd grace:
But ah! what ferv'd it to be happie ło?
Sith paffed pleasures double but new woe.
NTO the boundlefs Ocean of thy Beauty,
Runs this poor River, charg'd with streams of zea
Returning thee the tribute of my duty,
Which here my Love, my Youth, my Plaints reveal.
Here I unclafp the Book of my charg'd foul,
Where I have caft th' Accounts of all my care:
Here have I fumm'd my fighs; here I enroll
How they were spent for thee; look what they are,
Look on the dear expences of my Youth,
And see how juft I reckon with thine eyes:
Examine well thy beauty with my truth;
And cross my cares, ere greater fums arise.
Read it, fweet Maid, tho' it be done but flightly;
Who can fhew all his Love, doth love but lightly.
TRUST not, fweet Soule, thofe curled waves of gold
With gentle tides which on your temples flow,
Nor temples fpread with flackes of virgine fnow,
Nor fnow of cheekes with Tyrian graine enroll'd.
Truft not those shining lights which wrought my woe,
When first I did their burning rayes beholde,
Nor voyce, whofe founds more ftrange effects doe show
Than of the Thracian Harper have beene tolde:
Looke to this dying Lille, fading Rofe,
Darke Hyacinthe, of late whofe blufhing beames.
Made all the neighbouring herbes and graffe rejoyce,
And thinke how little is twixt Life's extreames :
The cruell Tyrant that did kill thofe flow'rs,
Shall once (aye mee!) not spare that Spring of yours.
OVE banish'd Heaven, in Earth was held in fcorn,
Wand'ring abroad in need and beggary;
And wanting friends, tho' of a Goddefs born,
Yet crav'd the alms of fuch as paffed by:
I, like a man devout and charitable,
Cloathed the naked, lodg'd this wand'ring guest,
With fighs and teares ftill furnishing his table,
With what might make the miferable bleft:
But this Ungrateful, for my good defert,
Intic'd my thoughts against me to confpire,
Who gave confent to steal away my heart,
And set my breast, his lodging on a fire,
Well, well, my friends, when beggars grow thus bold,
No marvel then tho' charity grow cold.
WHAT doth it ferve to fee Sunnes burning face?
And kies enamell'd with both Indies gold?
Or moone at night in jettie chariot roll'd?
And all the glorie of that starrie place?
What doth it ferve Earth's beautie to behold?
The mountaines pride, the meadowes flowrie grace;
The statelie comelineffe of forrests old,
The sport of flowds which would themselves embrace?
What doth it ferve to heare the Sylvans fongs,
The wanton Mearle, the Nightingalle's fad itraines,
Which in darke fhades feeme to deplore my wrongs?
For what doth serve all that this world containes,
Sith Shee for whom those once to mee were deare,
No part of them can have now with mee heare.
WHY fhould I fing in verfe, why should I frame
These fad neglected notes for her dear fake?
Why fhould I offer up unto her name,
The sweetest sacrifice my youth can make ?
Why should I strive to make her live for ever,
That never deigns to give me joy to live?
Why fhould my afflicted mufe fo much endeavour
Such honour unto cruelty to give?
If her defects have purchas'd her this fame,
What should her virtues do, her fmiles, her love?
If this her worst, how should her best inflame?
What paffions would her milder favours move?
Favours, I think, would fenfe quite overcome,
And that makes happy Lovers ever dumb.
IF croft with all mishaps be my poor Life,
If one short day I never spent in mirth,
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If my spirit with itself holds lasting strife,
If Sorrowes death is but new Sorrowes birth?
If this vaine World bee but a fable stage
Where flave-born Man playes to the fcoffing ftarres,
If Youth be tofs'd with Love, with Weaknesse Age,
If Knowledge ferve to hold our thoughts in warres?
If time can close the hundred mouths of Fame,
And make what's long fince paft, like that to bee,
If Vertue only bee an idle name,
If I when I was borne was borne to die?
Why feeke I to prolong these loathsome dayes,
The fairest rofe in shortest time decayes.
WEET Spring, thou turn'ft with all thy goodlie traine,
Thy head with flames, thy mantle bright with flow'rs,
The Zephyres curle the greene lockes of the plaine,
The cloudes for joy in pearles weepe down their fhow'rs.
Thou turn'ft (fweet Youth) but ah my pleasant how res,
And happie dayes with thee come not againe,
The fad memorialls only of my paine
Doe with thee turne, which turne my fweets in fow'rs.
Thou art the fame which still thou was before,
Delicious, wanton, amiable, faire,
But shee, whofe breath embaulmed thy whole fome aire,
Is gone: nor gold nor gemmes her can restore.
Neglected Vertue, Seafons goe and come
While thine forgot lie clofed in a Tombe,
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