May she round about you twine 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; Hath blotted out the light, To be chaste, is to be old, 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; 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, If that the Paracelsian crew The virtues of this liquor knew, Their endless toils they would give o'er, 'Tis medicine; meat for young and old; Elixir; blood of tortured gold. It is sublimed; it's calcinate; It is the quintessence of malt; It heals, it hurts; it cures, it kills; It makes some rich, and others poor; On a Mistress of whose affection he was doubtful. WHAT though with figures I should raise She loves me, she is none of these! |