LII.

CLERIMONT'S SONG.

TILL to be neat, still to be drest,

STIL

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.

LIII.

AN EPITAPH ON SALATHIEL PAVY, A CHILD OF QUEEN ELIZABETH'S CHAPEL.

EEP with me all you that read

WEEP

This little story;

And know, for whom a tear you shed

Death's self is sorry.

'Twas a child that so did thrive

In grace and feature,

As Heaven and Nature seemed to strive

Which owned the creature.

Years he numbered scarce thirteen

When Fates turned cruel,

Yet three filled zodiacs had he been
The stage's jewel;

And did act, what now we moan,
Old men so duly,

As, sooth, the Parce thought him one,
He played so truly.

So, by error to his fate

They all consented;

But viewing him since, alas! too late,
They have repented;

And have sought, to give new birth,
In baths to steep him;

But being so much too good for earth,
Heaven vows to keep him.

LIV.

VOLPONE'S SONG.

'OME my Celia, let us prove,

CON

While we may, the sports of love;
Time will not be ours for ever:
He at length our good will sever.
Spend not then his gifts in vain.
Suns that set may rise again:
But if once we lose this light,
'Tis with us perpetual night.
Why should we defer our joys?
Fame and rumour are but toys.
Cannot we delude the eyes
Of a few poor household spies?
Or his easier ears beguile,
So removed by our wile?

'Tis no sin love's fruit to steal,

But the sweet theft to reveal:

To be taken, to be seen,

These have crimes accounted been.

LV.

TO CELIA.

DRINK to me only with thine eyes,

And I will pledge with mine;

Or leave a kiss but in the cup,

And I'll not look for wine.

The thirst that from the soul doth rise,
Doth ask a drink divine;

But might I of Jove's nectar sup,
I would not change for thine.

I sent thee late a rosy wreath,
Not so much honouring thee,
As giving it a hope that there

It could not withered be.

But thou thereon did'st only breathe,
And sent'st it back to me;

Since when it grows, and smells, I swear,
Not of itself, but thee.

LVI.

I

A NYMPH'S PASSION.

LOVE, and he loves me again,

Yet dare I not tell who;

For if the nymphs should know my swain,

I fear they'd love him too;

Yet if it be not known,

The pleasure is as good as none,

For that's a narrow joy is but our own.

I'll tell, that if they be not glad,

They yet may envy me :
But then if I grow jealous mad,
And of them pitied be,

It were a plague 'bove scorn,

And yet it cannot be forborn,

Unless my heart would as my thought be torn.

He is, if they can find him, fair,

And fresh and fragrant too,

As summer's sky, or purged air,
And looks as lilies do

That are this morning blown ;

Yet, yet I doubt he is not known,

And fear much more, that more of him be shown.