My Sences want their outward motion Which now within Reason doth win, Redoubled by her secret notion: Like rich men that take pleasure In hidinge more then handling treasure. By absence this good means I gaine That I can catch her Where none can watch her In some close corner of my braine: There I embrace and kiss her, And so enjoye her, and so misse her. John Hoskins. On his Mistris, the Queen of Bohemia. 'Ou meaner Beauties of the Night, That poorly satisfie our Eies More by your number, then your light, What are you when the Sun shall rise? You Curious Chanters of the Wood, By your weake accents; what's your praise You Violets, that first apeare, By your pure purpel mantels knowne, Like the proud Virgins of the yeare, As if the Spring were all your own; 20 ΤΟ It came alone, but yet so arm'd With former love, I durst have sworne But neither steele nor stony breast Thy Conquest in regard of me Alasse is small, but in respect 20 ΤΟ 20 And such a one, as some that view Though you have stolen my heart away, Aurelian Townshend. Let others with attention sit, But Kinde and True have been long tried And safely there at anchor ride. From change of winds there we are free, Nor Pirat, though a Prince he be. Aurelian Townshend. ΤΟ M Elegy over a Tomb. Ust I then see, alas! eternal night Sitting upon those fairest eyes, And closing all those beams, which once did rise That light and heat in them to us did prove Oh, if you did delight no more to stay But rather chose an endless heritage, Tell us at least, we pray, Where all the beauties that those ashes ow'd Doth the Sun now his light with yours renew? Did you restore unto the Sky and Air, The red, and white, and blew? Have you vouchsafed to flowers since your death That sweetest breath? Had not Heav'ns Lights else in their houses slept, Must not the Sky and Air have else conspir'd, Must not each flower else the earth could breed Have been a weed? But thus enrich'd may we not yield some cause Had not your beauties giv'n this second birth To Heaven and Earth? ΤΟ 20 30 Tell us, for Oracles must still ascend, For those that crave them at your tomb: Tell us, alas, that cannot tell our grief, Or hope relief. Lord Herbert of Cherbury. An Ode upon a Question moved, whether Aving interr'd her Infant-birth, Was strew'd with flow'rs for the return The well accorded Birds did sing To which, soft whistles of the Wind, While doubling joy unto each other, ΤΟ |