Many a turn, and many a cross
Track, they redeem a bank of moss,
Spungy and swelling, and far more
Soft than the finest Lemster ore,
Mildly disparkl'ing like those fires
Which break from the injewell'd tires
Of curious brides, or like those mites
Of candied dew in moony nights;
Upon this convex all the flow'rs
Nature begets by th' sun, and show'rs,
Are to a wild digestion brought;
As if Love's sampler here was wrought,
Or Cytherea's ceston, which
All with temptation doth bewitch.
Sweet airs move here, and more divine
Made by the breath of great-ey'd kine,
Who, as they low, impearl with milk
The four-leav'd grass, or moss-like silk.
The breath of monkies, met to mix
With musk-flies, are th' aromaticks
Which cense this arch; and here and there,
And farther off, and every-where
Throughout that brave mosaick yard,
Those picks or diamonds in the card,
With pips of hearts, of club, and spade,
Are here most neatly interlaid.

Many a counter, many a die
Half-rotten and without an eye,

Lies here about; and, for to pave

The excellency of this cave,

Squirrels', and children's teeth late shed,

Are neatly here inchequered

With brownest toadstones, and the gum
That shines
upon the bluer plumb,

Flies' curious wings; and these among
Those silver pence, that cut the tongue
Of the red infant, neatly hung.
The glowworm's eyes, the shining scales
Of silv'ry fish, wheat-straws, the snail's
Soft candlelight, the kitling's eyne,
Corrupted wood, serve here for shine;
No glaring light of broad-fac'd day,
Or other over radiant ray

Ransacks this room, but what weak beams
Can make reflected from these gems,

And multiply; such is the light,

But ever doubtful, day or night.

By this quaint taper-light he winds
His errors up; and now he finds

His moon-tann'd Mab as somewhat sick,
And, Love knows, tender as a chick.
Upon six plump dandelions high-

Rear'd lies her elvish majesty,

Whose woolly bubbles seem'd to drown

Her mabship in obedient down;

And next to these two blankets; o'er-
Cast of the finest gossamer;

And then a rug of carded wool,

Which, sponge-like, drinking in the dull

Light of the moon, seem'd to comply,
Cloud-like, the dainty deity:
Thus soft she lies; and overhead
A spinner's circle is bespread
With cobweb curtains, from the roof
So neatly sunk, as that no proof
Of any tackling can declare

What gives it hanging in the air."

"Oberon's Feast.

"Shapcot, to thee the fairy state
I with discretion dedicate;

Because thou prizest things that are
Curious, and unfamiliar.

Take first the feast; these dishes gone,
We'll see the fairy court anon.

A little mushroom table spread;
After short prayers, they set on bread,
A moon-parch'd grain of purest wheat,
With some small glitt'ring grit, to eat
His choicest bits with; then in a trice
They make a feast less great than nice.
But, all this while his eye is serv'd,
We must not think his ear was starv'd;
But that there was in place, to stir
His spleen, the chirring grasshopper,
The merry cricket, puling fly,
The piping gnat for minstrelsy:
And now we must imagine first
The elves present, to quench his thirst,
A pure seedpearl of infant dew,
Brought and besweeten'd in a blue
And pregnant violet; which done,
His kitling eyes begin to run
Quite through the table, where he spies
The horns of pap'ry butterflies,'
Of which he eats; and tastes a little
Of what we call the cuckow's spittle:
A little furze-ball pudding stands
By, yet not blessed by his hands,
That was too coarse; but then forthwith
He ventures boldly on the pith
Of sugar'd rush, and eats the sag
And well-bestrutted bee's sweet bag;
Gladding his palate with some store
Of emmet's eggs: what would he more,
But beards of mice, a newt's stew'd thigh,
A bloated earwig, and a fly;

With the red-capp'd worm, that is shut
Within the concave of a nut,

Brown as his tooth; a little moth,

Late fatten'd in a piece of cloth;

With wither'd cherries; mandrakes' ears;
Moles' eyes; to these, the slain stag's tears;
The unctuous dewlaps of a snail;
The broke heart of a nightingale
O'ercome in music; with a wine
Ne'er ravish'd from the flatt'ring vine,
But gently press'd from the soft side.
Of the most sweet and dainty bride,

Brought in a dainty daisy, which

He fully quaffs up to bewitch

His blood to height? This done, commended
Grace by his priest, the feast is ended."

The anacreontic poems in this volume are remarkable for their joyous and hearty spirit. His invocations to Canary Sack are as impassioned as those to his mistresses. Amongst this class we find two addressed to Ben Jonson.

And again :

"Fill me a mighty bowl
Up to the brink,

That I may drink

Unto my Jonson's soul.

Crown it again, again;
And thrice repeat
That happy heat;
To drink to thee, my Ben.

Well I can quaff, I see,
To th' number five,
Or nine; but thrive
In frenzy ne'er like thee."

“Ah, Ben!

Say how, or when
Shall we, thy guests,
Meet at those lyrick feasts

Made at the Sun,

The Dog, the triple Tun;
Where we such clusters had,

As made us nobly wild, not mad?

And yet each verse of thine

Outdid the meat, outdid the frolick wine.

My Ben!

Or come again,

Or send to us

Thy wit's great overplus:
But teach us yet

Wisely to husband it;

Lest we that talent spend;

And, having once brought to an end

That precious stock, the store

Of such a wit, the world should have no more."

Of himself, he says,

"Born I was to meet with age,
And to walk life's pilgrimage;
Much I know of time is spent,
Tell I can't what's resident;
Howsoever, cares adieu!

I'll have nought to say to you;

But I'll spend my coming hours

Drinking wine, and crown'd with flow'rs."

There are a great many small epitaphs in the most chaste and classical style. As, for example,

Upon a Child that died.

"Here she lies, a pretty bud,
Lately made of flesh and blood;
Who as soon fell fast asleep,
As her little eyes did peep.
Give her strewings, but not stir
The earth that lightly covers her!"

Epitaph upon a Child.

"Virgins promis'd, when I died,
That they would, each primrose-tide,
Duly morn and ev'ning come,
And with flowers dress my tomb:
Having promis'd; pay your debts,
Maids, and here strew violets."

Upon the Death of his Sparrow.

AN ELEGY.

"Why do not all fresh maids appear To work love's sampler only here,

Where spring-time smiles throughout the year?

Are not here rose-buds, pinks, all flow'rs

Nature begets by th' sun and show'rs,
Met in one herse-cloth, to o'erspread
The body of the under-dead?

Phil, the late dead, the late dead dear!
O, may no eye distil a tear

For you, once lost, who weep not here!
Had Lesbia, too, too kind, but known
This sparrow, she had scorn'd her own;