THE TRUE GROWTH.

IT is not growing like a tree

In bulk, doth make man better be;

Or standing long an oak, three hundred year,
To fall a log at last, dry, bald, and sear :
A lily of a day

Is fairer far in May,

Although it fall and die that night,—
It was the plant and flower of Light.
In small proportions we just beauties see,
And in short measures life may perfect be.

CHARIS' TRIUMPH.

SEE the chariot at hand here of Love,
Wherein my Lady rideth!

Each that draws is a swan or a dove,
And well the car Love guideth.

As she goes, all hearts do duty
Unto her beauty;

And enamoured do wish, so they might

But enjoy such a sight,

That they still were to run by her side,

Through swords, through seas, whither she would ride.

Do but look on her eyes, they do light
All that Love's world compriseth!
Do but look on her hair, it is bright
As Love's star when it riseth!

Do but mark, her forehead 's smoother
Than words that soothe her;

And from her arched brows, such a grace
Sheds itself through the face,

As alone their triumphs to the life

All the gain, all the good of the element's strife.

Have you seen but a bright lily grow
Before rude hands have touched it?
Have you marked but the fall o' the snow
Before the soil hath smutched it?
Have you felt the wool of beaver?
Or swan's down ever?

Or have smelt o' the bud o' the briar?
Or the nard in the fire?

Or have tasted the bag of the bee?

O so white,-O so soft,-O so sweet is she!

SONG.

(A Translation from the Latin of Bonnefonius.)
STILL to be neat, still to be drest,
As you were going to a feast ;
Still to be powdered, still perfumed :
Lady, it is to be presumed,

Though art's hid causes are not found.
All is not sweet, all is not sound.

Give me a look, give me a face,
That makes simplicity a grace;
Robes loosely flowing, hair as free:
Such sweet neglect more taketh me
Than all the adulteries of art:

They strike mine eyes, but not my heart.

A FRAGMENT.

BOAST not these titles of your ancestors,

Brave youths, they're their possessions, none of yours.
When your own virtues equalled have their names,
"Twill be but fair to lean upon their fames;

For they are strong supporters; but, till then
The greatest are but growing gentlemen.

It is a wretched thing to trust to reeds;

Which all men do, that urge not their own deeds
Up to their ancestors'; the river's side

By which you're planted, shows your fruit shall bide.

Hang all your rooms with one large pedigree;
'Tis virtue alone is true nobility:

Which virtue from your father, ripe, will fall;

Study illustrious him, and you have all.

ON THE PORTRAIT OF SHAKESPEARE-1623.

THIS figure that thou here seest put,
It was for gentle Shakespeare cut,
Wherein the graver had a strife
With Nature, to outdo the life;
Oh, could he but have drawn his wit
As well in brass, as he has hit
His face, the print would then surpass
All that was ever writ in brass;
But since he cannot, reader, look
Not on his picture, but his book.

LINES FROM CATILINE.

Ir is, methinks, a morning full of fate,

It riseth slowly, as her sullen car

Had all the weights of sleep and death hung at it !
She is not rosy-fingered, but swollen black,

Her face is like a water turned to blood,

And her sick head is bound about with clouds,
As if she threatened night ere noon of day!

It does not look as it would have a hail,
Or health wis'd in it, as on other morns.

JEALOUSY.

(From "Every Man in His Humour.")

A NEW disease! I know not new or old,
But it may well be called poor mortal's plague;
For like a pestilence it doth infect

The houses of the brain.

First it begins

Solely to work upon the phantasy,

Filling her seat with such pestiferous air

As soon corrupts the judgment; and from thence
Sends like contagion to the memory;

Still each to other giving the infection,
Which as a subtle vapour spreads itself
Confusedly through every sensitive part,
Till not a thought or motion in the mind
Be free from the black poison of suspect.

BEGGING EPISTLE TO THE CHANCELLOR OF THE
EXCHEQUER.

My woful cry

To Sir Robert Pye;

And that he will venture

To send my debenture.

Tell him his Ben

Knew the time when
He loved the Muses:
Though now he refuses
To take apprehension
Of a year's pension,
And more is behind: