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If she slight me when I woe,
A VOTE (From Poetical Blossoms, second ed., 1636)
This only grant me, that my means may lie
Some honour I would have,
Rumour can ope the grave.
My house a cottage more
My garden painted o'er
And in this true delight,
But boldly say each night,
(From Miscellanies, 1650) Happy Insect what can be In happiness compar'd to thee? Fed with nourishment divine, The dewy morning's gentle wine! Nature waits upon thee still, And thy verdant cup does fill. 'Tis fill'd where ever thou dost tread, Nature selfe's thy Ganimed. Thou dost drink, and dance, and sing; Happier than the happiest King ! All the fields which thou dost see, All the plants belong to thee, All that summer hours produce, Fertile made with early juice. Man for thee does sow and plow; Farmer he and land-lord thou! Thou doest innocently joy ; Nor does thy luxury destroy; The shepherd gladly heareth thee, More harmonious than he. Thee country hindes with gladness hear, Prophet of the ripened year! Thee Phæbus loves, and does inspire; Phæbus is himself thy sire. To thee of all things upon earth, Life is no longer than thy mirth, Happy insect, happy thou, Dost neither age, nor winter know, But when thou'st drunk, and danced, and sung, Thy fill, the flowery leaves among (Voluptuous, and wise with all, Epicurean animal!) Sated with thy summer feast, Thou retir'st to endless rest.
(From The Contention of Ajax and Ulysses, 1659)
The glories of our blood and state
Are shadows, not substantial things;
Sceptre and crown
Must tumble down,
Some men with swords may reap the field,
And plant fresh laurels where they kill; But their strong nerves at last must yield; They tame but one another still:
Early or late
They stoop to fate, And must give up their murmuring breath, When they, poor captives, creep to death.
The garlands wither on your brow,
Then boast no more your mighty deeds;
Your heads must come
To the cold tomb,
DISDAIN RETURNED (Printed, without concluding stanza, in Porter's Madrigalles and Ayres, 1632)
He that loves a rosy cheek,
Or a coral lip admires;
Fuel to maintain his fires,
Gentle thoughts and calm desires,
Kindle never-dying fires;
My resolved heart to return;
And find nought but pride and scorn;
Sir Fobn Suckling
1609-1641 ORSAMES' SONG.
(From Aglaura, acted 1637)
Prithee, why so pale ?
Looking ill prevail?
Why so dull and mute, young sinner?
Prithee, why so mute?
, when speaking well can't win her,
Quit, quit, for shame, this will not move:
This cannot take her.
Nothing can make her:
TO LUCASTA, ON GOING TO THE WARS
(From Lucasta, 1649)
Tell me not, sweet, I am unkind,
That from the nunnery
To war and arms I fly.
True, a new mistress now I chase,
The first foe in the field,
A sword, a horse, a shield.
Yet this inconstancy is such
As you, too, shall adore,-
Loved I not honour more.