THE Grecians used to offer up their hair
Unto their rivers, whom they did esteem
As mighty Gods; and them great honour bare,
As if no virtue small in them had been.

Do thou the like, sweet LAURA, unto me!
Who, for my love, deserves a greater fee.

Thy golden tresses on me do bestow!

Who hold whole rivers flowing in mine eyes: Yet would not I, thou off shouldst cut them though! Dost muse! and ask, How this, thou mayst devise? I'll tell thee! Give thyself to me, for mine! So shalt thou give, uncut, thy tresses fine.

ON quicksedge, wrought with lovely eglantine,
My LAURA laid her handkercher to dry;
Which had before snow-white ywashed been.

But, after, when she called to memory,
That long 'twould be before, and very late,

Ere sun could do, as would her glist'ring eyes: She cast from them such sparkling glances straight, And with such force, in such a strangy guise,

As suddenly, and in one selfsame time,

She dried her cloth; but burnt this heart of mine!

GOLD upon gold, my only Joy did plate;

Whilst she did dress her head by crystal Glass. But whilst she looked on it, it sudden brake! So as, amazed thereat, much grieved she was. To whom I said, 'To grieve thus, 'tis in vain ! Since what is broke, whole cannot be again!

'Look steadfastly, with both thine eyes, on me; Who have my heart, through love, a Glass new made!' She on my face looked, and herself did see; Wherewith contented th'roughly, thus she said, 'Most happy I! Since, for to dress my head, For broken Glass, of whole one I am sped!'

RICH damask roses in fair cheeks do bide
Of my sweet Girl! like April in his prime:
But her hard heart, cold chilly snow doth hide;
Of bitter Januar, the perfect sign.

Her hair of gold shows yellow, like the corn

In July; when the sun doth scorch the ground: And her fair breast, ripe fruit; which doth adorn September rich. So as in her are found

Both Harvest, Summer, Winter, Spring, to be; Which you in breast, hair, heart, and face, may see!

SIREN.

COME, worthy Greek! ULYSSES! come,
Possess these shores with me!
The winds and seas are troublesome;
And here we may be free!
Here we may sit, and view their toil,
That travail in the deep:

And joy the day in mirth the while;
And spend the night in sleep!

ULYSSES.

Fair Nymph, if Fame, or Honour, were
To be attained with Ease;

Then would I come and rest with thee,
And leave such toils as these!
But here it dwells; and here must I
With danger seek it forth!

To spend the time luxuriously
Becomes not Men of Worth!

SIREN.

ULYSSES! O, be not deceived
With that unreal name!
This Honour is a thing conceived;
And rests on others' fame;

Begotten only to molest

Our peace, and to beguile

(The best thing of our life!) our rest; And gives us up to toil.

ULYSSES.

Delicious Nymph! suppose there were
Nor Honour, nor Report;
Yet Manliness would scorn to wear
The time in idle sport!

For Toil doth give a better touch,
To make us feel our joy;

And Ease finds tediousness as much
As Labour yields annoy.

SIREN.

Then, Pleasure likewise seems the shore,
Whereto tends all your toil;
Which you forego, to make it more,
And perish oft the while!
Who may disport them diversely,
Finds never tedious day!

And Ease may have variety,
As well as Action may!

ULYSSES.

But natures of the noblest frame,

These toils and dangers please!
And they take comfort in the same,
As much as you in Ease:

And with the thought of actions past
Are recreated still;

When Pleasure leaves a touch, at last,
To shew that it was ill.

SIREN.

That doth Opinion only cause!
That's out of Custom bred;
Which makes us many other laws
Than ever Nature did!

No widows wail for our delights!
Our sports are without blood!
The world, we see, by warlike wights,
Receives more hurt than good!

ULYSSES.

But yet the state of things requires
These motions of unrest;

And these Great Spirits of high desire
Seem born to turn them best!

To purge the mischiefs that increase,
And all good order mar;

For oft we see a wicked Peace,
To be well changed for War.

SIREN.

Well! Well! ULYSSES! then I see
I shall not have thee here!
And therefore I will come to thee;
And take my fortune there!
I must be won! that cannot win;
Yet lost, were I not won!
For Beauty hath created been
T'undo; or be undone!