New-startled blush of Flora!

The griefe of pale Aurora,

Who will contest no more,
Haste, haste, to strowe her floore.

III

Vermilion ball, that's given

From lip to lip in Heaven;

Loves couches cover-led,

Haste, haste, to make her bed.

IV

Dear offspring of pleas'd Venus,
And jollie plumpe Silenus;

Haste, haste, to decke the haire,
Of th' only sweetly faire.

V

See! rosie is her bower,

Her floore is all this flower;

Her bed a rosie nest

By a bed of roses prest.

VI

But early as she dresses,
Why fly you her bright tresses?
Ah! I have found, I feare;

Because her cheekes are neere.

LOVE CONQUER'D

A SONG

SET BY MR. HENRY LAWES

I

THE
Titus. By my

HE childish god of love did sweare

Thus: By my awfull bow and quiver,

Yon' weeping, kissing, smiling pair,

I'le scatter all their vowes i' th' ayr,

And their knit imbraces shiver.

II

Up then to th' head with his best art
Full of spite and envy blowne,

At her constant marble heart,

He drawes his swiftest surest dart,

Which bounded back, and hit his owne.

III

Now the prince of fires burnes;

Flames in the luster of her eyes; Triumphant she, refuses, scornes; He submits, adores and mournes, And is his votresse sacrifice.

IV

Foolish boy! resolve me now

What 'tis to sigh and not be heard He weeping kneel'd, and made a vow: The world shall love as yon' fast two; So on his sing'd wings up he steer'd.

A LOOSE SARABAND

SET BY MR. HENRY LAWES

I

H me! the little tyrant theefe!

AH

As once my heart was playing, He snatcht it up and flew away, Laughing at all my praying.

II

Proud of his purchase, he surveys

And curiously sounds it,

And though he sees it full of wounds,
Cruel one, still he wounds it.

III

And now this heart is all his sport,

Which as a ball he boundeth

From hand to breast, from breast to lip, And all its rest confoundeth.

IV

Then as a top he sets it up,

And pitifully whips it;