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But the spite on't is, no praise

Is due at all to me:

Love with me had made no staies

Had it any been but she.

Had it any been but she

And that very Face,

There had been at least ere this

A dozen dozen in her place.

Sir John Suckling.

To Cynthia.

On concealment of her beauty.

O not conceale thy radiant eyes,
The starre-light of serenest skies,
Least wanting of their heavenly light,
They turne to Chaos endlesse night.

Do not conceale those tresses faire,
The silken snares of thy curl'd haire,
Least finding neither gold, nor Ore,

The curious Silke-worme worke no more.

Do not conceale those brests of thine,
More snowe white then the Apenine,
Least if there be like cold or frost,
The Lilly be for ever lost.

Do not conceale that fragrant scent,

Thy breath, which to all flowers hath lent
Perfumes, least it being supprest,

No spices growe in all the East.

No, no, your picture doeth impart

Such valew I not wish

The native worth to any heart
That's unadorn'd with this.

Though poorer in desert I make
My selfe whilst I admyre,

The fuell which from hope I take
I give to my desire.

If this flame lighted from your Eyes

The subject doe calcine,

A Heart may bee your sacrifice

To the tune of, In fayth I cannot keepe my fathers sheepe.

Loris, it is not thy disdaine

CL

ever

Can ever cover with dispaire

Or in cold ashes hide that care

Which I have fedd with soe long paine,

I may perhaps myne eyes refraine

And fruiteless wordes noe more impart,

But yet still serve, still serve thee in my hearte.

What though I spend my haplesse dayes

In finding entertainements out,
Carelesse of what I goe about,

Or seeke my peace in skillfull wayes
Applying to my Eyes new rays
Of Beauty, and another flame
Unto my Heart, my

heart is still the same.

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IO

T'is true that I could love noe face
Inhabited by cold disdayne,

Taking delight in others paine.

Thy lookes are full of native grace;

Since then by chance scorne there hath place,

Tis to be hop't I may remove

This scorne one day, one day by Endless Love.

Sidney Godolphin.

20

Upon Phillis walking in a morning before

THe

My

Sun-rising.

"He sluggish morne as yet undrest,
Phillis brake from out her East;
As if shee'd made a match to run
With Venus, Usher to the sun.
The Trees like yeomen of her guard,
Serving more for pomp then ward,
Rankt on each side with loyall duty,
Weave branches to enclose her beauty.
The Plants whose luxury was lopt,
Or age with crutches underpropt;
Whose wooden carkases are growne
To be but coffins of their owne;
Revive, and at her generall dole
Each receives his ancient soule:
The winged Choristers began

To chirp their Mattins: and the Fan
Of whistling winds like Organs plai’d,

IO

20

Untill their Voluntaries made

The wakened earth in Odours rise
To be her morning Sacrifice.

The flowers, call'd out of their beds,
Start, and raise up their drowsie heads;
And he that for their colour seekes,
May find it vaulting in her cheekes,
Where Roses mixe: no Civil War
Betweene her Torke and Lancaster.
The Marigold whose Courtiers face
Ecchoes the Sun, and doth unlace
Her at his rise, at his full stop
Packs and shuts up her gaudy shop,
Mistakes her cue, and doth display:
Thus Philis antedates the day.

These miracles had cramp't the Sunne,
Who thinking that his kingdom's wonne,
Powders with light his freezled lockes,
To see what Saint his lustre mocks.

The trembling leaves through which he plai'd,
Dapling the walke with light and shade,
Like Lattice-windowes, give the spie
Roome but to peep with halfe an eye;
Lest her full Orb his sight should dim,
And bid us all good-night in him,
Till she would spend a gentle ray
To force us a new fashion'd day.
But what religious Paulsie's this

Which makes the boughs divest their bliss?
And that they might her foot-steps strawe,
Drop their leaves with shivering awe?

Phillis perceives, and (least her stay

Should wed October unto May;

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