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HIS LADY'S DOG.

WHEN her dear bosom clips

That little cur which fawns to touch her lips,
Or when it is his hap

To lie lapp'd in her lap,

O it grows noon with me;

With hotter-pointed beams

I burn, than those are which the Sun forth streams,
When piercing lightning his rays call'd may be;
And as I muse how I to those extremes
Am brought, I find no cause, except that she,
In love's bright zodiack having trac'd each room,
To the hot dog-star now at last is come.

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ON THE DEATH OF A LINNET.

Ir cruel death had ears,

This wing'd musician had liv'd many years,
And Nisa mine had never wept these wrongs:
For when it first took breath,

Or could be pleas'd by songs,

The Heavens their notes did unto it bequeath :
And if that Samian's sentences be true,

Amphion in this body lived anew.

But Death, who nothing spares, and nothing bears, As he doth kings, kill'd it, O grief! O tears!

LILLA'S PRAYER.

"Love, if thou wilt once more That I to thee return,

Sweet god! make me not burn

For quivering age, that doth spent days deplore. Nor do thou wound my heart

For some inconstant boy,

Who joys to love, yet makes of love a toy.
But, ah! if I must prove thy golden dart,

Of grace, O let me find

A sweet young lover with an aged mind.”
Thus Lilla pray'd, and Idas did reply,

(Who heard) "Dear, have thy wish, for such am I."

ARMELIN'S EPITAPH.

NEAR to this eglantine

Enclosed lies the milk-white Armeline;
Once Cloris' only joy,

Now only her annoy;

Who envied was of the most happy swains

That keep their flocks in mountains, dales, or plains:
For oft she bore the wanton in her arm,
And oft her bed and bosom did he warm;
Now when unkinder fates did him destroy,
Blest dog, he had the grace,

That Cloris for him wet with tears her face.

EPITAPH.

The bawd of justice, he who laws controll'd,
And made them fawn and frown as he got gold,
That Proteus of our state, whose heart and mouth
Were farther distant than is north from south,
That cormorant who made himself so gross
On people's ruin, and the prince's loss,

Is gone to Hell; and though he here did evil,
He there perchance my prove an honest devi!.

A TRANSLATION.

FIERCE robbers were of old

Exil'd the champaign ground,

From hamlets chas'd, in cities kill'd, or bound, And only woods, caves, mountains, did them hold: But now, when all is sold,

Woods, mountains, caves, to good men be refuge, And do the guiltless lodge,

And clad in purple gowns

The greatest thieves command within the towns.

EPITAPH.

THEN Death thee hath beguil'd,
Alecto's first born child;

Then thou who thrall'd all laws,

Now against worms cannot maintain thy cause:
Yet worms (more just than thou) now do no wrong,
Since all do wonder they thec spar'd so long;
For though from life thou didst but lately pass,
Twelve springs are gone since thou corrupted was.
Come, citizens, erect to Death an altar,
Who keeps you from axe, fuel, timber, halter.

A JEST.

Is a most holy church, a holy man,
Unto a holy saint with visage wan,

And eyes like fountains, mumbled forth a prayer,
And with strange words and sighs made black the air.
And having long so stay'd, and long long pray'd,
A thousand crosses on himself he laid;
And with some sacred beads hung on his arm,
His eyes, his mouth, his temples, breast did charm.
Thus not content (strange worship hath no end)
To kiss the earth at last he did pretend,
And bowing down besought with humble grace,
An aged woman near to give some place:
She turn'd, and turning up her hole beneath,
Said,
Sir, kiss here, for it is all but earth."

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[none,

Though it seems breathless, cold, and sense hath
But that false god which keeps

The monstrous people of the raging deeps:
Now that he doth not change his shape this while,
It is thus constant more you to beguile.

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PHRÆNE.

AONIAN sisters, help my Phræne's praise to tell, Phræne, heart of my heart, with whom the graces

dwell;

snow,

For I surcharged am so sore that I not know What first to praise of her, her breast, or neck of [eyes, Her cheeks with roses spread, or her two sun-like Her teeth of brightest pearl, her lips where sweetness lies: [forth, But those so praise themselves, being to all eyes set That, Muses, ye need not to say aught of their worth; Then her white swelling paps essay for to make known, [are shown; But her white swelling paps through smallest veil Yet she hath something else, more worthy than the rest,

Not seen; go sing of that which lies beneath her breast, And mounts like fair Parnasse, where Pegase well doth run

Here Phræne stay'd my Muse ere she had well begun.

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KISSES DESIRED.

THOUGH I with strange desire

To kiss those rosy lips am set on fire,

Yet will I cease to crave

Sweet kisses in such store,

As he who long before

In thousands them from Lesbia did receive: Sweetheart, but once me kiss,

And I by that sweet bliss

Even swear to cease you to importune more;
Poor one no number is;

Another word of me ye shall not hear
After one kiss, but still one kiss, my dear.

KALA'S COMPLAINT.

KALA, old Mopsus' wife,

Kala with fairest face,

For whom the neighbour swains oft were at strife,
As she to milk her snowy flock did tend,
Sigh'd with a heavy grace,

And said, "What wretch like me doth lead her life?

I see not how my task shall have an end:
All day I draw these streaming dugs in fold,
All night my empty husband's soft and cold."

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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 ncar, 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;

All only constant is in constant change;
What done is, is undone, and when undone,
Into some other figure doth it range;
Thus rolls the restless world beneath the Moon:
Wherefore, my mind, above time, motion, place,
Aspire, and steps, not reach'd by nature, trace.

A GOOD that never satisfies the mind,
A beauty fading like the April show'rs,
A sweet with floods of gall that runs combin'd,
A pleasure passing ere in thought made ours,
A honour that more fickle is than wind,

A glory at opinion's frown that low'rs,
A treasury which bankrupt time devours,
A knowledge than grave ignorance more blind,
A vain delight our equals to command,
A style of greatness, in effect a dream,
A swelling thought of holding sea and land,
A servile lot, deck'd with a pompous name:
Are the strange ends we toil for here below,
Till wisest death make us our errours know.

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Look as the flow'r, which ling'ringly doth fade,
The morning's darling late, the summer's queen,
Spoil'd of that juice which kept it fresh and green,
As high as it did raise, bows low the bead:
Just so the pleasures of my life being dead,
Or in their contraries but only seen,
With swifter speed declines than erst it spread,
And, blasted, scarce now shows what it hath been.
Therefore, as doth the pilgrim, whom the night
Hastes darkly to imprison on his way,
Think on thy home, my soul, and think aright
Of what's yet left thee of life's wasting day:
Thy sun posts westward, passed is thy morn,
And twice it is not given thee to be born.

THE weary mariner so far not flies

An howling tempest, harbour to attain;

Nor shepherd hastes, when frays of wolves arise,
So fast to fold, to save his bleating train,
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,

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