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النشر الإلكتروني

Reafon masters every sense,

And her virtues grace her birth; Lovely as all excellence,

Modeft in her most of mirth; Likelihood enough to prove Only worth could kindle love.

Such fhe is; and if you know
Such a one as I have fung,
Be the brown, or fair, or so,

That she be but fomewhile young;

Be affur'd 'tis fhe, or none,

That I love, and love alone.

THYRSIS's PRAISE TO HIS MISTRESS.

On a hill that grac'd the plain

Thyrfis fate, a comely fwain,

Comelier swain ne'er graced a hill;

Whilft his flock, that wander'd nigh,

Cropt the green grafs bufily,

Thus he tuned his oaten quill:

Ver hath made the pleasant field
Many feveral odours yield,

Odours aromatical:
From fair Aftra's cherry lip
Sweeter fmells for ever skip,

They in pleafing paffen all.

Leafy groves now mainly ring
With each sweet bird's fonnetting,
Notes that make the echos long :
But when Aftra tunes her voice,
All the mirthful birds rejoice,
And are lift'ning to her fong.

Fairly spreads the damask rofe,
Whofe rare mixture doth disclose
Beauties, pencils cannot feign.

Yet, if Aftra pass the bush,
Roses have been seen to blush;
She doth all their beauties ftain.

Fields are bleft with flow'ry wreath,
Air is bleft when the doth breathe,

Birds make happy every grove;
She each bird when she doth fing;
Phoebus, heat to earth doth bring,
She makes marble fall in love.

THE SYREN's SONG.

IN THE INNER TEMPLE MASK.

STEER, hither fteer, your winged pines,

All-beaten mariners!

Here lie love's undiscovered mines,

A prey to paffengers.

Perfumes far fweeter than the best

Which make the phoenix' urn and neft.

Fear not your fhips,

Nor any to oppose you, fave our lips;

But come on fhore,

Where no joy dies 'till love hath gotten more.

For fwelling waves, our panting breasts,
Where never ftorms arise,

Exchange; and be a while our guests;
For ftars, gaze on our eyes;

The compass love fhall hourly fing,

And,

as he

goes about the ring,

We will not mifs

To tell each point he nameth with a kiss. Then come on shore,

Where no joy dies 'till love hath gotten more.

R

BEAUMONT & FLETCHER.

FROM THE TRAGEDY OF THE BLOODY BROTHER.

SONG.

TAKE, oh take thofe lips away,
That fo fweetly were forfworn;
And those eyes, the break of day
Lights, that do mislead the morn.
But my kiffes bring again,
Seals of love, tho' feal'd in vain.

Hide, oh hide thofe hills of fnow
That thy frozen bofom bears;
On whofe tops the pinks that grow
Are of those that April wears;
But my poor heart first set free,
Bound in those icy chains by thee.

SONG

IN THE NICE VALOUR.

HENCE all you vain delights,
As fhort as are the nights

Wherein you spend your folly;
'There's nought in this life sweet,
If men were wise to see't,

But only melancholy,
O fweeteft melancholy!

Welcome folded arms and fixed eyes,
A figh that, piercing, mortifies;
A look that's faften'd to the ground,
without a found.

A tongue chain'd up

Fountain-heads and pathless groves,
Places which pale paffion loves;
Moonlight walks, when all the fowls
Are warmly hous'd, fave bats and owls;
A midnight bell, a parting groan,
These are the founds we feed upon.
Then ftretch our bones in a still gloomy valley,
Nothing's fo dainty sweet as lovely melancholy.

SONG

IN A MASQUE.

You should stay longer if we durft

Away. Alas! that he who first

Gave time wild wings to fly away,

Has now no power to make him stay.

And though these games muft needs be play'd, I wish this pair, when they are laid,

And not a creature nigh 'em,...

Might catch his fcythe as he does pafs,
And clip his wings, and break his glass,
And keep him ever by 'em.

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