SONG.

DRINK to me only with thine eyes,
And I will pledge with mine;
Or leave a kifs but in the cup,

And I'll not ask for wine.

The thirst that from the foul doth rife
Doth ask a drink divine,

But might I of Jove's nectar fup,
I would not change for thine.

I fent thee late a rofy wreath,
Not fo much honouring thee,
As giving it a hope that there

It could not withered be;
But thou thereon didst only breathe,
And fent'st it back to me;
Since when it grows and smells, I fwear,
Not of itfelf, but thee.

THE SWEET NEGLECT.

STILL to be neat, ftill to be dreft,

As

you were going to a feaft; Still to be powder'd, ftill perfum'd; Lady, it is to be prefum'd,

Tho' art's hid causes are not found,

All is not sweet, all is not found.

Give me a look, give me a face,
That makes fimplicity a grace;
Robes loosely flowing, hair as free;
Such fweet neglect more taketh me
Than all th' adulteries of art

That ftrike mine eye, but not mine heart.

HUE AND CRY AFTER CUPID,

BEAUTIES, have ye feen a toy,

Called Love; a little boy
Almost naked, wanton, blind,
Cruel now, and then as kind?
If he be among ye, say;
He is Venus' run-away.

She that will but now difcover
Where the winged wag doth hover,
Shall to-night receive a kiss,
How and where herself would wish;
But who brings him to his mother,
Shall have that kiss, and another.

Marks he hath about him plenty,
You may know him among twenty :
All his body is a fire,

And his breath a flame entire :
Which, being shot like lightning in,

Wounds the heart, but not the skin,

Wings he hath, which though ye clip,
He will leap from lip to lip:
Over liver, lights, and heart,
Yet not stay in any part.

And if chance his arrow miffes,
He will shoot himself in kiffes.

He doth bear a golden bow,
And a quiver, hanging low,
Full of arrows, which outbrave
Dian's fhafts, where, if he have
Any head more sharp than other,
With that firft he ftrikes his mother.

Still the faireft are his fuel,

When his days are to be cruel;

Lovers' hearts are all his food,

And his baths their warmeft blood:

Nought but wounds his hand doth season, And he hates none like to reafon.

Truft him not; his words, though sweet, Seldom with his heart do meet :

All his practice is deceit,

Every gift is but a bait:

Not a kifs but poifon bears,

And moft treafon's in his tears.

Idle minutes are his reign,

Then the ftraggler makes his gain,

By presenting maids with toys,

And would have you think them joys: "Tis th' ambition of the elf

To have all childish as himself.

If by thefe ye please to know him,
Beauties, be not nice, but fhew him,
Though ye had a will to hide him:
Now, we hope ye'll not abide him,
Since ye hear this falfer's play,
And that he is Venus' run-away.

WILLIAM BROWN,

Author of “ Britannia's Paftorals,” the “ Shepherd's Pipe,” &c. -A complete and beautiful edition of bis works was publisheď in 1772, by T. Davies in Ruffel Street, Covent Garden.

SONG.

SHALL I tell you whom I love?
Hearken then a while to me;

And if fuch a woman move

As I now fhall verfifie,
Be affur'd 'tis she, or none,
That I love, and love alone.

Nature did her fo much right,
As fhe fcorns the help of art;
In as many virtues dight

As e'er yet embraced a heart;
So much good, fo truly tried,
Some for lefs were deified.

Wit the hath, without defire

To make known how much the hath :

And her anger flames no higher

Than may fitly fweeten wrath.

Full of pity as may be,
Though, perhaps, not fo to me.