Just in the nick the cook knocked thrice, And all the waiters in a trice His summons did obey; Each serving-man, with dish in hand, When all the meat was on the table, And this the very reason was, The business of the kitchen's great, Passion o' me, how I run on! Now hats fly off, and youths carouse; On the sudden up they rise and dance; Thus several ways the time did pass, TRUTH IN LOVE. Of thee, kind boy, I ask no red and white, No odd becoming graces, Black eyes, or little know-not-whats in faces; I ask no more, 'Tis love in love that makes the sport. There's no such thing as that we beauty call, For though some long ago Liked certain colours mingled so and so, To black and blue, That fancy doth it beauty make. 'Tis not the meat, but 'tis the appetite And if I like one dish More than another, that a pheasant is; We up be wound, No matter by what hand or trick. THE DANCE. VOL. II. Love, Reason, Hate, did once bespeak And Hate consorts with Pride; so dance they. N They break, and Love would Reason meet, The rest do break again, and Pride ORSAMES' SONG IN 'AGLAURA.' Why so pale and wan, fond lover? Will, when looking well can't move her, Prithee, why so pale? Why so dull and mute, young sinner? Will, when speaking well can't win her, Prithee, why so mute? Quit, quit, for shame, this will not move: This cannot take her. If of herself she will not love, Nothing can make her: The devil take her! SONG. I prithee send me back my heart, For if from yours you will not part, Yet now I think on 't, let it lie, For th' hast a thief in either eye Why should two hearts in one breast lie But love is such a mystery, I cannot find it out: For when I think I'm best resolv'd, I then am in most doubt. Then farewell care, and farewell woe, For I'll believe I have her heart, THE LUTE SONG IN THE SAD ONE.' Hast thou seen the down in the air, When wanton blasts have tossed it? Or the ship on the sea, When ruder winds have crossed it? Or hast viewed the peacock in his pride, When he courts for his lechery? O, so fickle, O, so vain, O, so false, so false is she! CONSTANCY. Out upon it, I have loved Time shall moult away his wings, In the whole wide world again But the spite on't is, no praise Is due at all to me: Love with me had made no stays, Had it any been but she. Had it any been but she, And that very face, There had been at least ere this A dozen dozen in her place. |