Amor.

Cord.

[A DIALOGUE

BETWIXT CORDANUS AND AMORET

D

ON A LOST HEART

Cordanus

ISTRESSED pilgrim, whose dark
clouded eyes

Speak thee a martyr to love's cruelties,
Whither away?

What pitying voice I hear,

Pr'ythee, draw near.

Calls back my flying steps?

Amor. I shall but say, kind swain, what doth become Of a lost heart, ere to Elysium

Cord.

It wounded walks?

First, it does freely flye

Into the pleasures of a lover's eye;

But, once condemn'd to scorn, it fetter'd lies,
An ever-bowing slave to tyrannies.

Amor. I pity its sad fate, since its offence

Was but for love. Can tears recall it thence?

Cord. O no, such tears, as do for pity call,

She proudly scorns, and glories at their fall. Amor. Since neither sighs nor tears, kind shepherd,

tell,

A sacred violence to make her love?

Cord. O no! 'tis only Destiny or Fate

Fashions our wills either to love or hate. Amor. Then, captive heart, since that no humane spell

Hath power to graspe thee his, farewell.

Cord. Farewell.

Cho. Lost hearts, like lambs drove from their folds by fears,

May back return by chance, but not by tears.]

COMMENDATORY AND OTHER

VERSES

PREFIXED TO VARIOUS PUBLICATIONS

BETWEEN 1638 AND 1647

AN ELEGIE

PRINCESSE KATHERINE BORNE, CHRISTENED

BURIED, IN ONE DAY

OU, that can haply mixe your joyes with cries,

YOU

that can mixe your

And weave white Iös with black Elegies,

Can caroll out a dirge, and in one breath
Sing to the tune either of life, or death;

You, that can weepe the gladnesse of the spheres,
And pen a hymne, in stead of inke, with teares;
Here, here your unproportion'd wit let fall,
To celebrate this new-borne funerall,

And greete that little greatnesse, which from th' wombe

Dropt both a load to th' cradle and the tombe.

Bright soule! teach us, to warble with what feet Thy swathing linnen and thy winding sheet, Weepe, or shout forth that fonts solemnitie,

Which at once christn'd and buried thee,

And change our shriller passions with that sound, First told thee into th' ayre, then to the ground.

Ah, wert thou borne for this? only to call The King and Queen guests to your buriall! To bid good night, your day not yet begun, And shew a setting, ere a rising sun!

Or wouldst thou have thy life a martyrdom? Dye in the act of thy religion,

Fit, excellently, innocently good,

First sealing it with water, then thy blood?
As when on blazing wings a blest man sores,
And having past to God through fiery dores,
Straight 's roab'd with flames, when the same ele-
ment,

Which was his shame, proves now his ornament;
Oh, how he hast'ned death, burn't to be fryed,
Kill'd twice with each delay, till deified.
So swift hath been thy race, so full of flight,
Like him condemn'd, ev'n aged with a night,
Cutting all lets with clouds, as if th' hadst been
Like angels plum'd, and borne a Cherubin.