SONNET

TO GENERALL GORING, AFTER THE PACIFICATION AT

OW the

BERWICKE

A LA CHABOT

I

peace is made at the foes rate,

Whilst men of armes to kettles their old helmes

translate,

And drinke in caskes of honourable plate.

In ev'ry hand [let] a cup be found,

That from all hearts a health

may sound

To Goring! to Goring! see 't goe round.

II

He whose glories shine so brave and high, That captive they in triumph leade each eare and eye, Claiming uncombated the victorie,

And from the earth to heav'n rebound,

Fixt there eternall as this round:

To Goring! to Goring! see him crown'd.

III

To his lovely bride, in love with scars,

Whose eyes wound deepe in peace, as doth his sword

in wars;

They shortly must depose the Queen of Stars:

Her cheekes the morning blushes give,
And the benighted world repreeve;

To Lettice! to Lettice! let her live.

IV

Give me scorching heat, thy heat, dry Sun, That to this payre I may drinke off an ocean: Yet leave my grateful thirst unquensht, undone; Or a full bowle of heav'nly wine,

In which dissolved stars should shine,

To the couple! to the couple! th' are divine.

I bid adieu to love, and all the world beside.

II

Go, go;

Lay by thy quiver and unbend thy bow

Poore sillie foe,

Thou spend'st thy shafts but at my breast in vain, Since Death

My heart hath with a fatall icie deart

Already slain,

Thou canst not ever hope to warme her wound,

Or wound it o're againe.]

THE ANSWER

I

GAINE,

A

Thou witty cruell wanton, now againe,

Through ev'ry veine,

Hurle all your lightning, and strike ev'ry dart,

Againe,

Before I feele this pleasing, pleasing paine.
I have no heart,

Nor can I live but sweetly murder'd with

So deare, so deare a smart.

Her martyr, and put on my roabe of flame:

So I,

Advanced on my blazing wings on high,
In death became

Inthroan'd a starre, and ornament unto

Her glorious, glorious name.

A GUILTLESSE LADY

IMPRISONED: AFTER PENANCED

SONG

SET BY MR. WILLIAM LAWES

I

Η Hoth laugh and

EARK, faire one, how what e're here is

Doth laugh and sing at thy distresse;

Not out of hate to thy reliefe,

But joy t' enjoy thee, though in griefe.

II

See! that which chaynes you, you chaine here; The prison is thy prisoner;

How much thy jaylor's keeper art!

He bindes your hands, but you his heart.

The

III

gyves to rase so smooth a skin, Are so unto themselves within;

But, blest to kisse so fayre an arme,

Haste to be happy with that harme;

IV

And play about thy wanton wrist,

As if in them thou so wert drest;