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Can he prize the tainted posies
On her sweet breast,
That is the pride of Cynthia's train:
Is all bestow'd on me in vain.
He's a fool that basely dallies
Where each peasant mates with him; Shall I haunt the thronged valleys, Whilst there's nobler hills to climb? No, no; though clowns Are scar'd with frowns,
I know the best can but disdain:
Be all bestow'd on me in vain.
I do scorn to vow a duty,
Affords that bliss
For which I would refuse no pain:
But such as you,
You seek to captive me in vain.
Leave me then, you syrens, leave me,
Who am proof against your charms:
The heart that constant shall remain;
And I the while
Will sit and smile
To see you spend your time in vain.
COME, my Celia, let us prove,
While we may, the sweets of love;
'Tis no sin love's fruits to steal;
To be taken, to be seen,
These have crimes áccounted been.
THE SWEET NEGLECT.
STILL to be neat, still to be drest,
As you were going to a feast;
Tho' art's hid causes are not found,
That strike mine eye, but not mine heart,
HUE AND CRY AFTER CUPID.
BEAUTIES, have ye seen a toy,
Called Love; a little boy
She that will but now discover
And his breath a flame entire:
He doth bear a golden bow,
Still the fairest are his fuel,.
Lovers' hearts are all his food,
And his baths their warmest blood: Nought but wounds his hand doth season, And he hates none like to reason.
Trust 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 kiss but poison bears,
And most treason's in his tears.
Idle minutes are his reign,
Then the straggler makes his gain,
To have all childish as himself.
If by these ye please to know him,
SHALL I tell you whom I love?
Hearken then a while to me:
And if such a woman move
Nature did her so much right,
As she scorns the help of art; In as many virtues dight,
As e'er yet embraced a heart; So much good, so truly tried, Some for less were deified.
Wit she hath, without desire
To make known how much she hath: And her anger flames no higher Than may fitly sweeten wrath. Full of pity as may be, Though, perhaps, not so to me.
Reason masters every sense,
Modest in her most of mirth;
Such she is; and if you know
Such a one as I have sung,
That she be but somewhile young;