A PARADOX

I

IS true the beauteous Starre

TIS

To which I first did bow
Burnt quicker, brighter far,

Than that which leads me now;
Which shines with more delight,
For gazing on that light
So long, neere lost my sight.

II

Through foul we follow faire,
For had the world one face,
And earth been bright as ayre,
We had knowne neither place.

Indians smell not their neast;
A Swisse or Finne tastes best
The spices of the East.

III

So from the glorious Sunne
Who to his height hath got,
With what delight we runne
To some black cave or grot!

And, heav'nly Sydney you
Twice read, had rather view
Some odde romance so new.

IV

The god, that constant keepes

Unto his deities,

Is poore in joyes, and sleepes
Imprison'd in the skies.

This knew the wisest, who
From Juno stole, below
To love a bear or cow.

SONG

SET BY MR. HENRY LAWES

To Amarantha; That she would Dishevell her Haire

I

MARANTHA sweet and faire,

Α

A brade no more

As my

Ah brade no more that shining haire! curious hand or eye,

Hovering round thee, let it flye.

II

Let it flye as unconfin'd

As it's calme ravisher, the winde,

Who hath left his darling, th' East, To wanton o're that spicie neast.

III

Ev'ry tresse must be confest: But neatly tangled at the best; Like a clue of golden thread, Most excellently ravelled.

IV

Doe not then winde up that light In ribands, and o'er-cloud in night,

Like the sun in's early ray;
But shake your head, and scatter day.

See, 'tis broke! within this grove,
The bower and the walkes of love,
Weary lye we downe and rest,
And fanne each other's panting breast.

VI

Heere wee'll strippe and coole our fire, In creame below, in milk-baths higher : And when all wells are drawne dry, I'll drink a teare out of thine eye.

VII

Which our very joys shall leave, That sorrowes thus we can deceive;

Or our very sorrowes weepe, That joyes so ripe so little keepe.

D

SONNET

SET BY MR. HUDSON

I

EPOSE your finger of that ring,
And crowne mine with't awhile;
Now I restor't. Pray, dos it bring
Back with it more of soile?

Or shines it not as innocent,
As honest, as before 'twas lent?

II

So then inrich me with that treasure,

'Twill but increase your store,

And please me (faire one) with that pleasure Must please you still the more.

Not to save others is a curse

The blackest, when y'are ne're the worse