He that question would anew
What fair Eden was of old,
Let him rightly study you,
And a brief of that behold.
Welcome, welcome, &c.

Browne.

The sea hath

170

many

thousand sands,

The hath motes as many;

sun

The sky is full of stars, and love
As full of woes as any:
Believe me, that do know the elf,
And make no trial by thyself.

It is in truth a pretty toy
For babes to play withal;
But O the honies of our youth
Are oft our age's gall!

Self-proof in time will make thee know
He was a prophet told thee so:

A prophet that, Cassandra-like,
Tells truth without belief;

For headstrong youth will run his race,
Although his goal be grief:

Love's martyr, when his heat is past,
Proves Care's confessor at the last.

Anonymous.

If fathers knew but how to leave
Their children wit as they do wealth,
And could constrain them to receive
That physic which brings perfect health,
The world would not admiring stand
A woman's face and woman's hand.

Women confess they must obey,

We men will needs be servants still;
We kiss their hands, and what they say
We must commend, be't ne'er so ill:
Thus we, like fools, admiring stand
Her pretty foot and pretty hand.

We blame their pride, which we increase
By making mountains of a mouse;
We praise because we know we please;
Poor women are too credulous

To think that we admiring stand
Or foot, or face, or foolish hand.

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Anonymous.

Silly boy, 'tis full moon yet, thy night as day shines clearly;

Had thy youth but wit to fear, thou couldst not love

so dearly.

Shortly wilt thou mourn when all thy pleasures are bereaved;

Little knows he how to love that never was deceived.

This is thy first maiden flame, that triumphs yet unstained;

All is artless now you speak, not one word, yet, is

feigned;

All is heaven that are blessed;

you behold, and all

your thoughts

But no spring can want his fall, each Troilus hath

his Cressid.

Thy well-ordered locks ere long shall rudely hang neglected;

And thy lively pleasant cheer read grief on earth dejected.

Much then wilt thou blame thy Saint, that made thy heart so holy,

And with sighs confess, in love that too much faith is folly.

Yet be just and constant still! Love may beget a wonder,

Not unlike a summer's frost, or winter's fatal thunder.

He that holds his sweetheart true, unto his day of

dying,

Lives, of all that ever breathed, most worthy the

envying.

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Campion.

If thou long'st so much to learn, sweet boy, what 'tis to love.

Do but fix thy thought on me and thou shalt quickly

prove.

Little suit, at first, shall win,
Way to thy abashed desire,
But then will I hedge thee in
Salamander-like with fire!

With thee dance I will, and sing, and thy fond dalliance bear:

We the grovy hills will climb, and play the wantons there;

Other whiles we'll gather flowers,

on the grass;

Lying dallying on

And thus our delightful hours

Full of waking dreams shall pass.

When thy joys were thus at height, my love should turn from thee;

Old acquaintance then should grow as strange as strange might be;

Twenty rivals thou shouldst find,
Breaking all their hearts for me,
While to all I'll prove more kind

And more forward than to thee.

Thus, thy silly youth, enraged, would soon my love defy;

But, alas, poor soul, too late! clipt wings can never fly.

Those sweet hours which we had past,
Called to mind, thy heart would burn;
And couldst thou fly ne'er so fast,
They would make thee straight return.
Campion.

Break now, my heart, and die! O no, she may relent.

Let my despair prevail! O stay, hope is not spent. Should she now fix one smile on thee, where were despair?

The loss is but easy, which smiles can repair.

A stranger would please thee, if she were as fair.

Her must I love or none, so sweet none breathes as she;

The more is my despair, alas, she loves not me!

But cannot time make way for love through ribs of steel?

The Grecian, enchanted all parts but the heel,

At last a shaft daunted, which his heart did feel.

Campion.

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Blame not my cheeks, though pale with love they be;
The kindly heat unto my heart is flown,

To cherish it that is dismayed by thee,
Who art so cruel and unsteadfast grown:
For Nature, called for by distressed hearts,

Neglects and quite forsakes the outward parts.

But they whose cheeks with careless blood are stained,

Nurse not one spark of love within their hearts;