May she round about you twine
Like the easy twisting vine;

And whilst you sip

From her full lip

Pleasures as new

As morning dew,

Let those soft ties your hearts combine.

SONG.

[From the same.]

COME, O Come, I brook no stay;
He doth not love that can delay!
See, how the stealing night

Hath blotted out the light,
And tapers do supply the day!

To be chaste, is to be old,
And that foolish girl that's cold,
Is fourscore at fifteen:
Desires do write us green,
And looser flames our youth unfold.

See, the first taper's almost gone!

Thy flame like that will straight be none;

And I, as it expire,

Unable to hold fire;

She loseth time that lies alone.

O let us cherish then these powers, Whilst we yet may call them ours! Then we best spend our time,

When no dull zealous chime,

But sprightful kisses strike the hours.

THOMAS NABBES.

Langbaine, without giving us any particulars of his life, only tells us that he was pretty much esteemed by his contemporaries. The first of the following specimens, extracted from his poems, (subjoined to the "Spring's Glory," a mask, London, 1639), has some originality: the second would not have been disowned by his patron, Suckling. See Biog. Dram.

Upon excellent strong Beer, which he drank at the town of Wich, in Worcestershire, where salt is made.

Τπου

THOU ever youthful god of wine,

Whose burnish'd cheeks with rubies shine,

Thy brows with ivy chaplets crown'd;

We dare thee here to pledge a round!

Thy wanton grapes we do detest;
Here's richer juice from barley press'd.

Let not the muses vainly tell,

What virtue's in the horse-shoe-well,

That scarce one drop of good blood breeds,

But with mere inspiration feeds;

O let them come and taste this beer,
And water, henceforth, they'll forswear.

If that the Paracelsian crew

The virtues of this liquor knew,

Their endless toils they would give o'er,
And never use extractions more.

'Tis medicine; meat for young and old; Elixir; blood of tortured gold.

It is sublimed; it's calcinate;
"Tis rectified; precipitate;
It is Androgena, Sol's wife;
It is the Mercury of life;

It is the quintessence of malt;
And they that drink it want no salt.

It heals, it hurts; it cures, it kills;
Men's heads with proclamations fills;
It makes some dumb, and others speak;
Strong vessels hold, and crack'd ones leak;

It makes some rich, and others poor;
It makes, and yet mars many a score.

On a Mistress of whose affection he was doubtful.

WHAT though with figures I should raise
Above all height my mistress' praise;
Calling her cheek a blushing rose,
The fairest June did e'er disclose;
Her forehead, lilies; and her eyes,
The luminaries of the skies;
That on her lips ambrosia grows,
And from her kisses nectar flows?-
Too great hyperboles! unless

She loves me, she is none of these!
But, if her heart and her desires
Do answer mine with equal fires,
These attributes are then too poor.-
She is all these, and ten times more.