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ROBERT HEATH.

STANZAS On Clarastella saying she would commit herself ta

a Nunnery. STAY, Clarastella, prithee stay!

Recal those frantic vows again! Wilt thou thus cast thyself away,

As well as me, in fond disdain ? Wilt thou be cruel to thyself? chastise Thy harmless body, 'cause thy powerful eyes Have charm'd my senses by a strange surprise ? Is it a sin to be beloved ?

If but the cause you could remove Soon the effect would be removed ;

Where beauty is, there will be love. Nature, that wisely nothing made in vain, Did make you lovely to be lov'd again, And, when such beauty tempts, can love refrain ? When Heaven was prodigal to you,

And you with beauty's glory stored,
He made you like himself for view,

To be beheld and then adored.
Why should the gold then fear to see that sun
That

pure? Why should you live a nun, And hide those rays Heay'n gave to you alone? Thyself a holy temple art,

Where love shall teach us both to pray; I'll make an altar of my heart,

And incense on thy lips I'll lay. Thy mouth shall be my oracle, and then For beads we'll tell our kisses o'er again, Till they, breath'd from our souls, shall cry, amen.

SONG.

ANACREONTIC.

INVEST my head with fragrant rose,

That on fair Flora's bosom grows ! Distend my veins with purple juice, That mirth may through my soul diffuse.

'Tis wine and love, and love in wine,

Inspires our youth with flames divine. Thus, crown's with Paphian myrtle, I In Cyprian shades will bathing lie; Whose snows if too much cooling, then Bacchus shall warm my blood again.

'Tis wine and love, and love in wine,

Inspires our youth with flames divine. Life's short and winged pleasures fly; Who mourning live, do living die. On down and floods then, swan-like, I Will stretch my limbs, and singing die.

"Tis wine and love, and love in wine, Inspires our youth with flames divine,

ROBERT HERRICK.

THE MAD MAID's SONG. GOOD-morrow to the day so fair ;

Good morrow, Sir, to you ;
Good-morrow to mine own torn hair,

Bedabbled with the dew.
Good-morrow to this primrose too ;

Good-morrow to each maid,
That will with flow'rs the tomb bestrew

Wherein my love is laid.
I'll seek him there! I know, ere this,

The cold, cold earth doth shake him ; But I will go, or send a kiss

By you, Sir, to awake him. Pray, hurt him not; though he be dead

He knows well who do love him ; And who with green-turfs rear his head,

And who do rudely move him. He's soft and tender-pray, take heed

With bands of cowslips bind him ;* And bring him home-but 'tis decreed

That I shall never find him.

AS
S Julia once a slumbering lay

It chape'd a Bee did fly that way,
After a dew, or dew-like shower,
To tipple freely in a flower.
For some rich flower, he took the lip
Of Julia, and began to sip ;
But when he felt he suck'd from thence
Honey, and in the quintessence,
He drank so much he scarce could stir,
So Julia took the Pilferer.

And thus surpris'd, as filchers use,
He thus began himself to' excuse :
Sweet Lady-Flower, I never brought
Hither the least one thieving thought ;
But taking those rare lips of yours
For some fresh, fragrant, luscious flowers,
I thought I might there take a taste,
Where so much Syrup ran at waste.
Besides, know this, I never sting
The flower that gives me nourishing ;
But with a kiss, or thanks, do pay
For honey that I bear away.
This said, he laid his little scrip
Of honey 'fore her Ladyship :
And told her, as some tears did fall,
That that he took, and that was all,
At which she smil'd, and bade him go
And take his bag ; but thus much know,
When next he came a pilfering so,
He should from her full lips derive,
Honey enough to fill his hive.

SIR HENRY WOTTON.

SONNET. You

meaner beauties of the night,

Which poorly satisfy our eyes
More by your number than your light,
You common people of the skies,
What are you when the sun doth rise ?
Ye violets that first appear,

By your pure purple mantles known,
Like the proud virgins of the year,

As if the spring were all your own, What are you when the rose is blown? Ye curious chanters of the wood,

That warble forth dame nature's lays,
Thinking your passions understood

By your weak accents, what's your praise
When Philomel her voice doth raise ?
So, when my mistress shall be seen

In sweetness of her looks, and mind;
By virtues first, then choice, a queen,
Tell me, if she was not design'd
Th' eclipse and glory of her kind ?

STANZAS From the Reliquia Wottoniana, 1672. HEART-TEARING cares, and quivering fears,

Anxious sighs, untimely tears, Fly, fiy to courts, Fly to fond worldlings' sports, Where strain'd Sardonic smiles are glosing still, And grief is forc'd to laugh against her will; Where mirth's but mummery, And sorrows only real be! Fly from our country pastimes! fly, Sad troop of human misery! Come, serene looks, Clear as the crystal brooks,

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