SONG.

PHOEBUS arife,

And paint the fable skies

With azure, white, and red :

Roufe Memnon's mother from her Tithon's bed,
That she may thy career with roses spread.
The nightingales thy coming each-where fing,
Making eternal fspring,

Give life to this dark world that lieth dead.
Spread forth thy golden hair

In larger locks than thou waft wont before,
And, emperor like, decore

With diadem of pearl thy temples fair.
Chafe hence the ugly night,

Which ferves but to make dear thy glorious light.

This is the morn should bring unto this grove
My Love, to hear, and recompence my love!
Fair king, who all preferves,

But fhew thy blushing beams;

And thou two sweeter eyes

Shall fee, than those which by Penéus' streams

Did once thy heart surprise.

Now Flora decks herself in faireft guise.

If that, ye winds, would hear

A voice furpaffing far Amphion's lyre,

Your furious chiding stay;

Let zephyr only breathe,

And with her treffes play.

The winds all filent are,

And Phoebus in his chair

Enfaffroning sea and air,
Makes vanish every star.
Night, like a drunkard, reels

Beyond the hills, to fhun his flaming wheels.
The fields with flowers are deck'd in every hue,
The clouds with orient gold fpangle their blue;
Here is the pleasant place,

And nothing wanting is, fave fhe, alas!

SONNE T.

THRICE happy he, who by fome shady grove Far from the clamorous world doth live, his own; Though folitary, who is not alone,

But doth converse with that eternal love.

O how more fweet is birds' harmonious moan,

Or the hoarfe fobbings of the widow'd dove,
Than those smooth whisperings near a prince's throne,
Which good make doubtful, do the ill approve!
O how more fweet is zephyr's wholesome breath,
And fighs embalm'd which new-born flow'rs unfold,
Than that applause vain honour doth bequeath!
How sweeter streams than poifon drunk in gold!
The world is full of horrors, troubles, flights;
Woods' harmless shades have only true delights.

SONNET.

SWEET fpring, thou turn'ft, with all thy goodly train, Thy head with flames, thy mantle bright with flow'rs; The zephyrs curl the green locks of the plain,

The clouds for joy in pearls weep down their fhow'rs.

Doft turn, sweet youth! but (ah!) my pleasant hours And happy days, with thee come not again!

The fad memorials only of my pain

Do with thee turn, which turn my fweets to fours!
Thou art the fame which ftill thou wert before ;
Delicious, lufty, amiable, fair,

But the whose breath embalm'd thy wholesome air
Is gone, nor gold nor gems can her restore.
Neglected virtue! feafons go and come,
While thine, forgot, lie closed in a tomb.

SONNET

TO THE NIGHTINGALE.

SWEET bird, that fing'ft away the early hours,
Of winters past, or coming, void of care,
Well pleased with delights that present are;
Fair seasons, budding fprays, fweet-fmelling flow'rs:
To rocks, to fprings, to rills, from leafy bow'rs
Thou thy Creator's goodness doft declare,
And what dear gifts on thee he did not spare;
A ftain to human fenfe in fin that low'rs.

What foul can be fo fick, which by thy fongs
(Attir'd in sweetness) fweetly is not driv'n
Quite to forget earth's turmoils, fpites, and wrongs,
And lift a reverend eye and thought to heav'n?
Sweet artless fongfter, thou my mind dost raise
To airs of spheres, yes, and to angels' lays.

THIS world a hunting is,

The

prey poor man; the Nimrod fierce is death His fpeedy greyhounds are

Luft, fickness, envy, care,

Strife, that ne'er falls amifs,

With all thofe ills that haunt us while we've breath

Now, if by chance we fly

Of these the

eager chase,

Old age, with stealing pace,

Cafts on his nets, and then we panting die.

THOMAS HEYWOOD.

Langbaine enumerates five-and-twenty plays written by this voluminous author. The following extracts are taken from his "Pleafant Dialogues and Drammas, Sc." small 12mo. 1637.

SONG.

PACK clouds away, and welcome day.
With night we banish sorrow;
Sweet air blow foft, larks mount aloft,
To give my love good-morrow.
Wings from the wind to please her mind,
Notes from the lark I'll borrow;
Bird prune thy wing, nightingale fing,
To give my love good-morrow,
Notes from them both I'll borrow.

Wake from thy neft, Robin-red-breaft,
Sing birds in every furrow;
And from each hill let mufic fhrill
Give my fair love good-morrow.
Blackbird, and thrush, in every bush,
Stare, linnet, and cock-fparrow!
You pretty elves, among yourselves,
Sing my fair Love good-morrow.
To give my Love good-morrow,
Sing birds in every furrow.