doth run

Here Phræne stay'd my Muse ere she had well begun. In equal measure got,

To forge to mighty Jove
The thunderbolts above,
Nor on this round below
Rich Midas' skill to know,

And make all gold I touch,

Do I desire; it is for me too much:

Of all the arts practis'd beneath the sky,
I would but Phillis' lapidary be.

NISA.

NISA, Palemon's wife, him weeping told
He kept not grammer rules, now being old;
For why, quoth she, position false make ye,
Putting a short thing where a long should be.

BEAUTY'S IDEA.

WHO would perfection's fair idea see,
On pretty Cloris let him look with me;

White is her hair, her teeth white, white her skin,
Black be her eyes, her eye-brows Cupid's inn:
Her locks, her body, hands do long appear,
But teeth short, short her womb, and either ear,
The space 'twixt shoulders; eyes are wide, brow wide,
Strait waist, the mouth strait, and her virgin pride.
Thick are her lips, thighs, with banks swelling there,
Her nose is small, small fingers, and her hair,
Her sugar'd mouth, her cheeks, her nails be red,
Little her foot, breast little, and her head.
Such Venus was, such was that flame of Troy,
Such Cloris is, mine hope and only joy.

LALUS' DEATH.

AMIDST the waves profound,

Far, far from all relief,

The honest fisher Lalus, ah! is drown'd,

Shut in this little skiff;

The boards of which did serve him for a bier,
So that when he to the black world came near,
Of him no silver greedy Charon got;
For he in his own boat
Did pass that flood, by which the gods do swear.

FLOWERS OF SION:

OR,

SPIRITUAL POEMS.

TRIUMPHANT arches, statues crown'd with bays,
Proud obelisks, tombs of the vastest frame,
Brazen Colosses, Atlases of fame,

And temples builded to vain deities' praise;
States which unsatiate minds in blood do raise,
From southern pole unto the arctic team,
And even what we write to keep our name,
Like spiders' cauls, are made the sport of days;

As I (wing'd with contempt and just disdain)
Now fly the world, and what it most doth prize,
And sanctuary seek, free to remain

From wounds of abject times, and envy's eyes:
To me this world did once seem sweet and fair,
While sense's light mind's perspective kept blind;
Now like imagin'd landscape in the air,
And weeping rainbows, her best joys I find :
Or if aught here is had that praise should have,
It is an obscure life and silent grave.

Of this fair volume which we world do name,
If we the sheets and leaves could turn with care,
Of him who it corrects, and did it frame,
We clear might read the art and wisdom rare,