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And let our love ne'er turn to hate.
SONG. NOT, Celia, that I juster am,
Or better than the rest ; For I would change each hour, like them,
Were not my heart at rest. But I am ty'd to very thee
By ev'ry thought I have : Thy face I only care to see,
Thy heart I only crave.
All that in woman is ador'd,
In thy dear self I find;
The handsome and the kind.
Why then should I seek farther store,
And still make love anew? When change itself can give no more,
'Tis easy to be true.
If you love me don't pursue me;
HEARS not my Phillis, how the birds,
Their feather'd mates salute? They tell their passion in their words,
Must I alone be mute? Phillis, without frown or smile, Sat and knotted all the while,
The god of love, in thy bright eyes,
Doth like a tyrant reign;
Without his dart or flame.
And yet in raging love;
My passion should approve.
And not one look obtain;
Might pleasingly explain ?
How you crow and domineer!
And carry the dominion clear,
As you were still the same that once you were! Fie, Chloris, 'tis a gross mistake,
Correct your errors, and be wise;
But yet have learn'd, though love I prize,
And I had youth t excuse it;
I then myself your vassal sware,
And could be still so (which is rare), But on condition that you not abuse it. 'Tis beauty that to woman-kind
Gives all the rule and sway; Which once declining, or declin'd,
Men afterwards unwillingly obey. Yet still you have enough, and more than needs,
To rule a more rebellious heart than mine; For as your eyes still shoot, my heart still bleeds,
And I must be a subject still :
Nor is it much against my will,
And I must still adore ;
You in your very ruins shall have more
SIR RICHARD FANSHAW. THOU blushing rose, within whose virgin leaves
The wanton wind to sport himself presumes, Whilst from their rifled wardrobe he receives
For his wings purple, for his breath perfumes. Blown in the morning, thou shalt fade ere noon;
What boots a life which in such haste forsakes thee? Thou'rt wondrous frolic, being to die so soon,
And passing proud a little colour makes thee. If thee thy brittle beauty so deceives,
Know then, the thing that swells thee is thy bane; For the same beauty, doth in bloody leaves
The sentence of thy early death contain. Someclown's coarse lungs will poison thysweetflow'r,
If by the careless plough thou shalt be torn, And many Herods lie in wait each hour,
To murder thee as soon as thou art born. Nay, force thy bud to blow, their tyrant breath Anticipating life to hasten death.