Sometimes he cloathes it gay and fine,

Then straight againe he strips it.

He cover'd it with false reliefe,

Which gloriously show'd it; And for a morning-cushionet

On's mother he bestow'd it.

VI

Each day, with her small brazen stings,

A thousand times she rac'd it; But then at night, bright with her gemmes,

Once neere her breast she plac'd it.

VII

There warme it gan to throb and bleed;

She knew that smart, and grieved; At length this poore condemned heart

With these rich drugges repreeved.

VIII
She washt the wound with a fresh teare,

Which my Lucasta dropped,
And in the sleave-silke of her haire
'Twas hard bound up and wrapped.

IX
She proab’d it with her constancie,

And found no rancor nigh it;
Only the anger of her eye

Had wrought some proud flesh by it.

Then prest she narde in ev'ry veine,

Which from her kisses trilled; And with the balme heald all its paine,

That from her hand distilled.

' XI But yet this heart avoyds me still,

Will not by me be owned; But's fled to its physitian's breast; · There proudly sits inthroned.

ORPHEUS TO WOODS

SONG

SET BY MR. CURTES

L EARK! Oh heark! you guilty trees,
11 In whose gloomy galleries
Was the cruell'st murder done,
That e're yet eclipst the sunne.
Be then hepceforth in your twigges
Blasted, e're you sprout to sprigges;
Feele no season of the yeere,
But what shaves off all your haire,
Nor carve any from your wombes
Ought but coffins and their tombes.

ORPHEUS TO BEASTS

SONG
SET BY MR. CURTES

I

L ERE, here, oh here! Euridice,
IT Here was she slaine;
Her soule 'still’d through a veine:

The gods knew lesse
That time divinitie,

Then ev'n, ev’n these
Of brutishnesse.

Oh! could you view the melodie

Of ev'ry grace, And musick of her face,

You'd drop a teare,
Seeing more harmonie

In her bright eye,
Then now you heare.

DIALOGUE

Lucasta, Alexis
SET BY MR. JOHN GAMBLE

Lucasta
TELL me, Alexis, what this parting is,

That so like dying is, but is not it?

Alexis
It is a swounding for a while from blisse,

'Till kind how doe you call's us from the fit.

Chorus
If then the spirits only stray, let mine
Fly to thy bosome, and my soule to thine:
Thus in our native seate we gladly give
Our right for one, where we can better live.

II
Lu. But ah, this ling'ring, murdring farewel!

Death quickly wounds, and wounding cures

the ill. Alex. It is the glory of a valiant lover, Still to be dying, still for to recover.