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النشر الإلكتروني

But to let such dangers pass,

Which a Lover's thoughts disdain!

'Tis enough, in such a place,

To attend Love's joys in vain!

Do not mock me, in thy bed;

While these cold nights freeze me dead!

WHAT is it all, that men possess, among themselves conversing? Wealth, or Fame, or some such boast; scarce worthy the rehearsing!

Women only are Men's good; with them in love conversing! If weary; they prepare us rest! If sick; their hand attends us! When with grief our hearts are 'pressed; their comfort best befriends us!

Sweet, or sour, they willing go, to share what Fortune sends us ! What pretty babes! with pain they bear; our name and form presenting.

What we get, how wise they keep! by sparing, wants preventing. Sorting all their household cares to our observed contenting. All this, of whose large use I sing, in two words is expressed. GOOD WIFE is the good I praise! if by good men possessed. Bad with bad, in ill suit well; but good with good live blessed!

THERE is a garden in her face,

Where roses and white lilies grow.

A heavenly Paradise is that place,

Wherein all pleasant fruits doth flow.

There, cherries grow, which none may buy,
Till Cherry ripe!' themselves do cry.

Those cherries fairly do enclose
Of orient pearl a double row;
Which when her lovely laughter shows,
They look like rosebuds filled with snow.

Yet them, nor Peer, nor Prince, can buy,
Till Cherry ripe!' themselves do cry.
Her eyes, like Angels, watch them still;
Her brows, like bended bows do stand,
Threatening with piercing frowns to kill
All that attempt, with eye, or hand,

Those sacred cherries to come nigh!
Till Cherry ripe!' themselves do cry.

JACK and JOAN, they think no ill;
But loving live, and merry still!
Do their week-day's work; and pray
Devoutly on the Holy Day.

Skip and trip it on the green,

And help to choose the Summer Queen.

Lash out, at a Country Feast,

Their silver penny with the best.

Well can they judge of nappy ale;
And tell, at large, a winter tale.
Climb up to the apple-loft;

And turn the crabs till they be soft.
TIB is all the father's joy;

And little Toм, the mother's boy.
All their pleasure is Content;
And care, to pay their yearly rent.

JOAN can call by name, her cows; And deck her windows with green boughs. She can wreaths and tutties make; And trim with plums a bridal cake. JACK knows what brings gain, or loss; And his long flail can stoutly toss : Makes the hedge, which others break; And ever thinks, what he doth speak.

Now, you Courtly Dames and Knights, That study only strange delights! Though you scorn the homespun gray, And revel in your rich array; Though your tongues dissemble deep, And can your heads from danger keep: Yet, for all your pomp and train, Securer lives the silly Swain!

FOLLOW thy fair Sun, unhappy Shadow!
Though thou be black as night,

And She made all of light;

Yet follow thy fair Sun, unhappy Shadow!

Follow her, whose light thy light depriveth! Though here thou liv'st disgraced,

And She in heaven is placed;

Yet follow her, whose light the world reviveth!

Follow those pure beams; whose beauty burneth! That so have scorchèd thee;

As thou still black must be,

Till her kind beams, thy black to brightness turneth!

Follow her, while yet her glory shineth!
There comes a luckless night,

That will dim all her light;

And this, the black unhappy Shade divineth!

Follow still! since so thy Fates ordainèd.
The Sun must have his Shade,

Till both at once do fade;

The Sun still proved, the Shadow still disdainèd!

WHEN to her lute CORINNA sings,
Her voice revives the leaden strings;
And doth in highest notes appear,
As any challenged echo clear:

But when she doth of mourning speak;
E'en with her sighs, the strings do break!

And as her lute doth live, or die,

Led by her Passion; so must I!
For when of Pleasure she doth sing,
My thoughts enjoy a sudden Spring!
But if she doth of Sorrow speak;

E'en from my heart, the strings do break!

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HER fair inflaming Eyes,
Chief authors of my cares,
I prayed, in humblest wise,
With grace to view my tears!
They beheld me, broad awake;
But, alas, no ruth would take!

Her Lips, with kisses rich
And words of fair delight,

I fairly did beseech

To pity my sad plight!

But a voice from them brake forth,
As a whirlwind from the North!

Then to her Hands I fled,

That can give heart and all;

To them I long did plead;
And loud for pity call!

But, alas, they put me off,

With a touch worse than a scoff!

So back I straight returned;

And at her Breast I knocked!
Where long in vain I mourned;
Her heart so fast was locked!

Not a word could passage find;
For a rock enclosed her mind!

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