A FORSAKEN LADY TO HER

FALSE SERVANT

THAT IS DISDAINED BY HIS NEW MISTRISS

WE

you

ERE it that you so shun me, 'cause wish (Cruels't) a fellow in your wretchednesse, Or that you take some small ease in your owne Torments, to heare another sadly groane, I were most happy in my paines, to be So truely blest, to be so curst by thee: But oh! my cries to that doe rather adde, Of which too much already thou hast had, And thou art gladly sad to heare my moane; Yet sadly hearst me with derisiön.

Thou most unjust, that really dost know, And feelst thyselfe the flames I burne in. Oh! How can you beg to be set loose from that Consuming stake you binde another at?

Uncharitablest both wayes, to denie
That pity me, for which yourself must dye,
To love not her loves you, yet know the pain
What 'tis to love, and not be lov'd againe.

Flye on, flye on, swift Racer, untill she Whom thou of all ador'st shall learne of thee The pace t'outfly thee, and shall teach thee groan, What terrour 'tis t'outgo and be outgon.

Nor yet looke back, nor yet must we Run then like spoakes in wheeles eternally, And never overtake? Be dragg'd on still By the weake cordage of your untwin'd will Round without hope of rest? No, I will turne, And with my goodnes boldly meete your scorne; My goodnesse which Heav'n pardon, and that fate Made you hate love, and fall in love with hate.

But I am chang'd! Bright reason, that did give My soule a noble quicknes, made me live One breath yet longer, and to will, and see Hath reacht me pow'r to scorne as well as thee: That thou, which proudly tramplest on my grave, Thyselfe mightst fall, conquer'd my double slave: That thou mightst, sinking in thy triumphs, moan, And I triumph in my destructiön.

Hayle, holy cold! chaste temper, hayle! the fire Rav'd o're my purer thoughts I feel t' expire, And I am candied ice. Yee pow'rs! if e're

I shall be forc't unto my sepulcher,

Or violently hurl'd into my urne,

Oh make me choose rather to freeze than burne.

THE GRASSEHOPPER

TO MY NOBLE FRIEND, MR. CHARLES COTTON

ODE

I

H thou, that swing'st upon the waving eare

OH

Of some well-filled oaten beard,

Drunk ev'ry night with a delicious teare

Dropt thee from Heav'n, where now th'art reard.

II

The joyes of earth and ayre are thine intire,
That with thy feet and wings dost hop and flye;
And when thy poppy workes, thou dost retire
To thy carv'd acorn-bed to lye.

III

Up with the day, the Sun thou welcomst then,
Sportst in the guilt plats of his beames,
And all these merry dayes makʼst merry men,
Thy selfe, and melancholy streames.

IV

But ah, the sickle! golden eares are cropt;
Ceres and Bacchus bid good-night;

Sharpe frosty fingers all your flowrs have topt,
And what sithes spar'd, winds shave off quite.

V

Poore verdant foole! and now green ice, thy joys Large and as lasting as thy peirch of grasse, Bid us lay in 'gainst winter raine, and poize Their flouds with an o'erflowing glasse.

VI

Thou best of men and friends? we will create
A genuine summer in each others breast;
And spite of this cold Time and frosen Fate,
Thaw us a warme seate to our rest.

VII

Our sacred harthes shall burne eternally

As vestal flames; the North-wind, he

Shall strike his frost-stretch'd winges, dissolve and flye This Etna in epitome.

VIII

Dropping December shall come weeping in,
Bewayle th' usurping of his raigne;

But when in show'rs of old Greeke we beginne,
Shall crie, he hath his crowne againe!