Sometimes he cloathes it gay and fine,
Then straight againe he strips it.

V

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.

X

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

H

SONG

SET BY MR. CURTES

EARK! Oh heark! you guilty trees,
In whose gloomy galleries

Was the cruell'st murder done,
That e're yet eclipst the sunne.
Be then henceforth 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

HERE, here, oh here! Euridice,

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.

II

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.

Lu.

DIALOGUE

Lucasta, Alexis

SET BY MR. JOHN GAMBLE

I

Lucasta

`ELL me, Alexis, what this parting is,
That so like

TELL

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

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.