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E your words made, good Sir! of Indian ware,
That you allow me them by so small rate?
Or do you mean my tender ears to spare,
How cloth'd? How waited on? Sigh'd she, or smil'd?
LOVE, banish'd Heaven, on earth was held in scorn,
Wand'ring abroad in need and beggary; And wanting friends, though of a goddess born, Yet crav'd the alms of such as passed by: I, like a man devout and charitable, Clothed the naked, lodg'd this wand'ring Guest; With sighs and tears still furnishing his table, With what might make the miserable blest. But this Ungrateful, for my good desert, Intic'd my thoughts against me to conspire, Who gave consent 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, though charity grow cold!
DEAR! why should you command me to my rest,
When now the Night doth summon all to sleep?
Well could I wish it would be ever day,
CUPID AND CAMPASPE.
UPID and my Campaspe play'd
Growing on 's cheek (but none knows how)
O Love! has she done thus to thee?
Yes! O yes! if any maid
O yes! O yes! has any lost
A heart which many a sigh hath cost?
Which, as a pearl, Disdain doth wear?
Is any one undone by fire,
And turn'd to ashes through desire?
Being cheated of her golden sleep,
BEAUTY, sweet love, is like the morning dew,
Whose short refresh upon the tender green, Cheers for a time, but till the sun doth shew, And straight 'tis gone as it had never been.
Soon doth it fade that makes the fairest flourish,
The date of age, the calends of our death-
Must not grieve my love, whose eyes would read Lines of delight whereon her youth might smile, Flowers have time before they come to seed,
And she is young, and now must sport the while. And sport (sweet maid) in season of these years,
And learn to gather flowers before they wither, And where the sweetest blossom first appears, Let love and youth conduct thy pleasures thither.
Lighten forth smiles to cheer the clouded air,
And calm the tempest which my sighs do raise; Pity and smiles do best become the fair,
Pity and smiles must only yield thee praise. Make me to say, when all my griefs are gone, Happy the heart that sigh'd for such a one.
LOOK, Delia, how we' esteem the half-blown rose,
ET others sing of knights and palladines, In aged accents and untimely words, Paint shadows in imaginary lines,
Which well the reach of their high wits records; But I must sing of thee, and those fair eyes! Authentic shall my verse in time to come; When yet the' unborn shall say-"Lo,where she lies, Whose beauty made him speak, that else was dumb!" These are the arks, the trophies I erect,
That fortify thy name against old age; And these thy sacred virtues must protect Against the dark, and time's consuming rage. Though the' error of my youth they shall discover; Suffice they shew-I liv'd, and was thy lover!