Reafon masters every sense, And her virtues grace her birth; Lovely as all excellence, Modeft in her most of mirth; Likelihood enough to prove Only worth could kindle love. Such fhe is; and if you know That she be but fomewhile young; Be affur'd 'tis fhe, or none, That I love, and love alone. THYRSIS's PRAISE TO HIS MISTRESS. On a hill that grac'd the plain Thyrfis fate, a comely fwain, Comelier swain ne'er graced a hill; Whilft his flock, that wander'd nigh, Cropt the green grafs bufily, Thus he tuned his oaten quill: Ver hath made the pleasant field Odours aromatical: They in pleafing paffen all. Leafy groves now mainly ring Fairly spreads the damask rofe, Yet, if Aftra pass the bush, Fields are bleft with flow'ry wreath, Birds make happy every grove; THE SYREN's SONG. IN THE INNER TEMPLE MASK. STEER, hither fteer, your winged pines, All-beaten mariners! Here lie love's undiscovered mines, A prey to paffengers. Perfumes far fweeter than the best Which make the phoenix' urn and neft. Fear not your fhips, Nor any to oppose you, fave our lips; But come on fhore, Where no joy dies 'till love hath gotten more. For fwelling waves, our panting breasts, Exchange; and be a while our guests; The compass love fhall hourly fing, And, as he goes about the ring, We will not mifs To tell each point he nameth with a kiss. Then come on shore, Where no joy dies 'till love hath gotten more. R BEAUMONT & FLETCHER. FROM THE TRAGEDY OF THE BLOODY BROTHER. SONG. TAKE, oh take thofe lips away, Hide, oh hide thofe hills of fnow SONG IN THE NICE VALOUR. HENCE all you vain delights, Wherein you spend your folly; But only melancholy, Welcome folded arms and fixed eyes, A tongue chain'd up Fountain-heads and pathless groves, SONG IN A MASQUE. You should stay longer if we durft Away. Alas! that he who first Gave time wild wings to fly away, Has now no power to make him stay. And though these games muft needs be play'd, I wish this pair, when they are laid, And not a creature nigh 'em,... Might catch his fcythe as he does pafs, |