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We each to other may this voyce enspire;
"This is that good Æneas, past through fire, [for Hell,
Through seas, stormes, tempests: and imbarqu'd
Came back untouch'd. This man hath travail'd well."

I, yet, had utter'd nothing on thy part,
When these were but the praises of the art.
But when I have said, the proofes of all these be
Shed in thy songs; 'tis true: but short of thee.

CXXIX,

TO EDWARD FILMER,

ON HIS MUSICALL WORK DEDICATED TO THE QUEEN. ANNO 1629.

WHAT charming peales are these,

That, while they bind the senses, doe so please?
They are the marriage-rites

Of two, the choicest paire of man's delights,
Musique and Poesie:

French aire, and English verse, here wedded lie.
Who did this knot compose,

Againe hath brought the lilly to the rose;
And, with their chained dance,

Recelebrates the joyfull match with France.
They are a school to win

The faire French daughter to learne English in;
And, graced with her song,

To make the language sweet upon her tongue.

CXXXII.

TO THE SAME.

WHEN we doe give, Alphonso, to the light,
A work of ours, we part with our owne right;
For then, all mouths will judge, and their owne way:
The learn'd have no more priviledge, than the lay.
And though we could all men, all censures heare,
We ought not give them taste, we had an eare.
For, if the hum'rous world will talke at large,
They should be fooles, for me, at their own charge.
Say, this, or that man they to thee preferre;
Even those for whom they doe this, know they erre:
And would (being ask'd the truth) ashamed say,
They were not to be nam'd on the same day.
Then stand unto thy selfe, nor seeke without [out.
For fame, with breath soone kindled, soone blowne

CXXX. TO MIME.

THAT not a paire of friends each other see, But the first question is, When one saw thee? That there's no journey set, or thought upon, To Braynford, Hackney, Bow, but thou mak'st one; That scarce the towne designeth any feast To which thou'rt not a weeke bespoke a guest; That still thou'rt made the supper's flagge, the drum, The very call, to make all others come: [strive Think'st thou, Mime, this is great? or, that they Whose noise shall keepe thy miming most alive, Whil'st thou doth raise some player from the grave, Out-dance the Babion, or out-boast the brave; Or (mounted on a stoole) thy face doth hit On some new gesture, that's imputed wit? O, runne not proud of this. Yet, take thy due. Thou dost out-zany Cokely, Pod; nay, Gue: And thine owne Coriat too. But (would'st thou see) Men love thee not for this: they laugh at thee,

CXXXI.

TO ALPHONSO FERRABOSco,

ON HIS BOOKE.

To urge, my lov'd Alphonso, that bold fame,
Of building townes, and making wild beasts tame,
Which Musick had; or speak her knowne effects,
That she removeth cares, sadnesse ejects,
Declineth anger, perswades clemencie,
Doth sweeten mirth, and heighten pietie,
And is t'a body, often, ill inclin'd,

No lesse a sov'raigne cure, than to the mind;
I alledge, that greatest men were not asham'd,
Of old, even by her practice to be fram'd;
To say, indeed, she were the soule of Heaven,
That the eighth spheare, no lesse, than planets seven,
Mov'd by her order, and the ninth more high,
ncluding all, where thence call'd harmonie:
VOL. V.

CXXXIII

TO MR. JOSUAH SYLVESTER.

Ir to admire were to commend, my praise
Might then both thee, thy work and merit raise:
But, as it is, (the child of ignorance,
And utter stranger to all ayre of France)
How can I speak of thy great paines, but erre?
Since they can onely judge, that can conferre.
Behold! the reverend shade of Bartas stands
Before my thought, and (in thy right) commands
That to the world I publish, for him, this;
Bartas doth wish thy English now were his.
So well in that are his inventions wrought,
As his will now be the translation thought,
Thine the originall; and France shall boast,
No more, those mayden glories she hath lost.

CXXXIV.

ON THE FAMOUS VOYAGE.

No more let Greece her bolder fables tell
Of Hercules, or Theseus going to Hell.
Orpheus, Ulysses: or the Latine Muse,
With tales of Troye's just knight, our faiths abuse.
We have a Shelton, and a Heyden got,

4

Had power to act, what they to faine had not.
All, that they boast of Styx, of Acheron,
Cocytus, Phlegeton, ours have prov'd in one;
The filth, stench, noise: save only what was there
Subtly distinguish'd, was confused here.
Their wherry had no saile, too; ours had none:
And in it, two more horride knaves, than Charon.
Arses were heard to croake, in stead of frogs;
And for one Cerberus, the whole coast was dogs.
Furies there wanted not: each scold was ten.
And, for the cries of ghosts, women, and men,
Laden with plague-sores, and their sinnes, were heard,
Lash'd by their consciences, to dye affeard.
Then let the former age, with this content her,
She brought the poets forth, but ours th' adventer.
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THE VOYAGE IT SELFE.

I SING the brave adventure of two wights,
And pity 'tis, I cannot call 'hem knights:

One was; and he, for brawne, and braine, right able
To have been stiled of king Arthur's table.
The other was a squire, of faire degree;
But, in the action, greater man than he:
Who gave, to take at his returne from Hell,
His three for one. Now, lordlings, listen well.

It was the day, what time the powerfull Moone
Makes the poore Banck-side creature wet it' shoone,
In it' owne hall; when these (in worthy scorne
Of those, that put out moneyes, on returne
From Venice, Paris, or some in-land passage
Of six times to and fro, without embassage,
Or he that backward went to Berwick, or which
Did dance the famous morrisse, unto Norwich)
At Bread-street's Mermaid, having din'd,and merry,
Propos'd to goe to Hoi'borne in a wherry:
A harder taske, than either his to Bristo',
Or his to Antwerpe. Therefore, once more, list ho'.
A docke there is, that called is Avernus,
Of some Bride-well, and may, in time, concerne us
All, that are readers: but, me thinks 'tis od,
That all this while I have forgot some god,
Or goddesse to invoke, to stuffe my verse;
And with both bombard-stile, and phrase, rehearse
The many perills of this port, and how
Sans helpe of Sybil, or a golden bough,
Or magick sacrifice, they past along!
Alcides, be thou succouring to my song.

Thou hast seene Hell (some say) and know'st all
nookes there,

Canst tell me best, how every fury lookes there,
And art a god, if fame thee not abuses,
Alwayes at hand, to aid the merry Muses.
Great club-fist, though thy back, and bones be sore,
Still, with thy former labours; yet, once more,
Act a brave work, call it thy last adventry :
But hold my torch, while I describe the entry
To this dire passage. Say thou stop thy nose:
'Tis but light paines: indeed this dock's no rose.

In the first jawes appear'd that ugly monster,
Yeleped mud, which, when their oares did once stirre,
Belch'd forth an ayre, as hot, as at the muster
Of all your night-tubs, when the carts doe cluster,
Who shall discharge first his merd-urinous load:
Thorow her wombe they make their famous road,
Betweene two walls; where, on one side, to scar men,
Were seene your ugly centaures, yee call car-mon,
Gorgonian scolds, and harpyes: on the other
Hung stench, diseases, and old filth, their mother,
With famine, wants, and sorrowes many a dosen,
The least of which was to the plague a cosen.
But they unfrighted passe, though many a privie
Spake to them louder, than the oxe in L'vie;
And many a sinke powr'd out her rage anenst'hem;
But still their valour, and their vertue fenc't 'hem,
And, on they went, like Castor brave, and Pollux,
Plowing the mayne. When, see(the worst of all lucks)
They met the second prodigie, would feare a
Man, that had never heard of a Chimæra.
One said, it was bold Briareus, or the beadle,
(Who hath the hundred hands when he doth meddle)
The other thought it Hydra, or the rock
Made of the trull, that cut her father's lock:
But, comming neere, they found it but a liter, [her.
So huge, it seem'd, they could by no meanes quite

Back, cry'd their brace of Charons: they cry'd, no,
No going back; on stiil, you rogues and row.
How hight the place? a voyce was heard, Cocytus.
Row close then, slaves. Alas, they will beshite us.
No matter, stinkards, row. What croaking sound
Is this we heare? of frogs? no guts wind-bound,
Over your heads: well, row. At this a loud
Crack did report it selfe, as if a cloud

Had burst with storme and downe fel', ab excelsis
Poore Mercury, crying out on Paracelsus,
And all his followers, that had so abus'd him:
And, in so shitten sort, so long had us'd him:
For (where he was the god of eloquence,
And subtiltie of metalls) they dispense
His spirits, now in pils, and ecke in potions,
Suppositories, cataplasmes and lotions.
But many moones there shall not wane (quoth be)
(In the meane time, let 'hem imprison me)
But I will speake (and know I shall be heard)
Touching this cause, where they will be affeard
To answer me. And sure it was th' intent
Of the grave fart, late let in parliament,
Had it been seconded, and not in fume
Vanish'd away, as you must all presume
Their Mercury did now. By this, the stemme
Of the hulke touch'd, and as by Polypheme
The sly Ulysses stole in a sheeps-skin,
The well-greas'd wherry now had got between,
And bade her fare-well sough unto the lurden:
Never did bottom more betray her burden;
The meat-boat of Beares-colledge, Paris-garden,
Stunk not so ill; nor when she kist Kate Arden,
Yet, one day in the yeare, for sweet 't is voyc't
And that is when it is the lord maior's foist.

By this time had they reach'd the Stygian poole,
By which the masters sweare, when on the stoole
Of worship, they their nodding chinnes do bit
Against their breasts. Here, sev'rall ghosts did fit
About the shore, of farts, but late departed,
White, black, blew, greene, and in more formes out-
Than all those Atomi ridiculous,
[started,
Whereof old Democrite, and Hill Nicholas,
One said, the other swore, the world consiste.
These be the cause of those thick frequent mists
Arising in that place, through which, who goes,
Must try th' un-used valour of a nose:
And that ours did. For yet, no nare was tainted,
Nor thumbe, nor finger to the stop acquainted,
But open and unarm'd encounter'd all:"
Whether it languishing stuck upon the wall,
Or were precipitated down the jakes,

And after swom abroad in ample flakes,
Or that it lay, heap'd like an usurer's masse,
All was to them the same, they were to passe,
And so they did, from Styx to Acheron :
The ever-boyling flood. Whose banks upon
Your Fleet-lane furies, and hot cooks do dwell,
That with still-scalding steems, make the place Hell
The sinks ran grease, and haire of meazled hogs, .
The heads, houghs, entrails, and the hides of dogs:
For to say truth, what scullion is so nasty,
To put the skins and offall in a pasty?
Cats there lay divers had been flead and rosted,
And after mouldy grown, again were tosted,
Then selling not, a dish was tane to mince 'hem.
But still, it seem'd, the ranknesse did convince 'hem.
For, here they were thrown in with th' melted pewter,
Yet drown'd they not. They had five lives in future.
But'mong'st these Tiberts, who do you think there
Old Bankes the juggler, our Pythagoras,

[was?

Grave tutor to the learned horse.

Both which, Being beyond sea, burned for one witch: Their spirits transmigrated to a cat: And now, above the poole, a face right fat, With great gray eyes, are lifted up and mew'd? Thrice did it spit: thrice div'd. At last it view'd Our braver heroes with a milder glare, And in a pittious tune began. How dare Your dainty nostrils (in so hot a season, When every clerke eats artichoks and peason, Laxative lettuce, and such windy meat) Tempt such a passage? when each privie's seat Is fill'd with buttock? and the wals do sweat Urine and plaisters? when the noise doth beat Upon your eares, of discords so un-sweet? And ont-cries of the damned in the Fleet? Cannot the Plague-bill keep you back? nor bels Of loud Sepulchre's with their hourely knels, Bat you will visit grisly Pluto's hall? Behold where Cerberus, rear'd on the wall Of Hol❜borne (three sergeants' heads) looks ore, And stays but till you come unto the dore! Tempt not his fury, Pluto is away: Aud madame Cæsar, great Proserpina, Is now from home. You lose your labours quite, Were you Jove's sons, or had Alcides' might. They cry'd out, Pusse. He told them he was Banks, That had so often shew'd 'hem merry pranks. They laugh't at his laugh-worthy fate. And past The tripple head without a sop. At last, Calling for Radamanthus, that dwelt by A sope-boyler; and Eacus him nigh, Who kept an ale-house; with my little Minos, An ancient pur-blind fletcher, with a high nose; They took 'hem all to witnesse of their action: And so went bravely back, without protraction. In memory of which most liquid deed, The city since hath rais'd a pyramide. And I could wish for their eternis'd sakes, My Muse had plough'd with his, that sung A-jax.

THE FORREST.

I.

WHY I WRITE NOT OF LOVE.

SOME act of Love's bound to rehearse, I thought to bind him in my verse: Which when he felt, Away, (quoth he) Can poets hope to fetter me? It is enough, they once did get Mars and my mother in their net : I weare not these my wings in vaine. With which he fled me: and againe, Into my rimes could ne're be got By any art. Then wonder not, That since my numbers are so cold, When Love is fled, and I grow old.

Or stayre, or courts; but stand'st an ancient pile,
And, these grudg'd at, art reverenc'd the while.
Thou joy'st in better marks, of soile, of ayre,
Of wood, of water: therein thou art faire.
Thou hast thy walkes for health, as well as sport:
Thy Mount, to which the Dryads do resort,
Where Pan and Bacchus their high feasts have made,
Beneath the broad Beech and the chest-nut shade;
That taller tree which of a nut was set,

At his great birth, where all the Muses met.
There in the writhed barke, are cut the names
Of many a Sylvane, taken with his flames;
And thence the ruddy Satyres oft provoke
The lighter Faunes, to reach thy ladie's oke.
Thy copp's too, nam'd of Gamage, thou hast there,
That never failes to serve thee season'd deere,
When thou wouldst feast, or exercise thy friends.
The lower land, that to the river bends,
Thy sheep, thy bullocks, kine and calves do feed:
The middle grounds thy mares, and horses breed.
Each banck doth yeeld thee coneyes; and the topps
Fertile of wood, Ashore and Sydney's copps,
To crown thy open table, doth provide
The purple phesant, with the speckled side:
The painted partrich lyes in every field,
And for thy messe is willing to be kill'd.
And if the high-swolne Medway faile thy dish,
Thou hast thy ponds, that pay thee tribute fish,
Fat aged carps, that run into thy net,
And pikes, now weary their own kinde to eat,
As loth the second draught, or cast to stay,
Officiously at first themselves betray.

Bright eeles, that emulate them, and leape on land,
Before the fisher, or into his hand.

Then hath thy orchard fruit, thy garden flowers,
Fresh as the ayre, and new as are the houres.
The early cherry, with the later plum,
Fig, grape, and quince, each in his time doth come:
The blushing apricot and woolly peach

Hang on thy wals, that every child may reach.
And though thy wals be of the countrey stone,
They're rear'd with no man's ruine, no man's grone:
There's none that dwell about themwish them downe;
But all come in, the farmer and the clowne:
And no one empty-handed, to salute

Thy lord and lady, though they have no sute.
Some bring a capon, some a rurall cake,
Some nuts, some apples; some that think they make
The better cheeses bring 'hem; or else send
By their ripe daughters, whom they would commend
This way to husbands; and whose baskets beare
An embleme of themselves, in plum or peare.
But what can this (more than expresse their love)
Adde to thy free provisions, farre above

The need of such? whose liberall boord doth flow,
With all that hospitality doth know!

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II.

TO PENSHURST.

THOU art not, Penshurst, built to envious show,
Of touch, or marble; nor canst boast a row
Of polish'd pillars, or a roofe of gold:
Thou hast no lantherne, whereof tales are told;

But gives me what I call for, and lets me eate;
He knowes, below, he shall finde plentie of meate;
Thy tables hoord not up for the next day,
Nor, when I take my lodging, need I pray
For fire, or lights, or livorie: all is there;
As if thou then wort mine, or I raigu'd here:

There's nothing I can wish, for which I stay.
That found king James, when hunting late this way,
With his brave sonne, the prince, they saw thy fires
Shine bright on every harth, as the desires
Of thy Penates had beene set on flame,
To entertayne them; or the countrey came,
With all their zeale to warme their welcome here.
What (great, I will not say, but) sodaine cheare
Didst thou then make 'hem! and what praise was
On thy good lady then! who therein reap'd [heap'd
The just reward of her high huswifery;
To have her linnen, plate, and all things nigh,
When she was farre: and not a roome, but drest,
As if it had expected such a guest!

These, Penshurst, are thy praise, and yet not all.
Thy lady's noble, fruitfull, chaste withall.
His children thy great lord may call his owne :
A fortune in this age but rarely knowne,
They are, and have beene taught religion: thence
Their gentler spirits have suck'd innocence.
Each morne, and even, they are taught to pray
With the whole houshold, and may every day
Reade in their vertuous parents' noble parts,
The mysteries of manners, armes, and arts.
Now, Penshurst, they that will proportion thee
With other edifices, when they see
Those proud, ambitious heaps, and nothing else,
May say, their lords have built, but thy lord dwells.

III.

TO SIR ROBERT WROTH.

The whil'st the severall seasons thou hast seene
Of flowry fields, of cop'ces greene,
The mowed meddows, with the fleeced sheep,
And feasts that either shearers keep;
The ripened eares yet humble in their height,
And furrows laden with their weight;
The apple-harvest that doth longer last;
The hogs return'd home fat from mast;
The trees cut out in log; and those boughs made
A fire now, that lent a shade!

Thus Pan and Sylvane having had their rites,
Comus puts in for new delights;

And fils thy open ball with mirth and cheere,
As if in Saturne's raigne it were;
Apollo's harpe, and Hermes' lyre resound,
Nor are the Muses strangers found:
The rout of rurall folk come thronging in,
(Their rudenesse then is thought no sin)
Thy noblest spouse affords them welcome grace;
And the great heroes of her race,

Sit mixt with losse of state or reverence.
Freedome doth with degree dispence.
The jolly wassall walks the often round,
And in their cups their cares are drown'd:
They think not then which side the cause shall leese,
Nor how to get the lawyer fees.

Such, and no other was that age, of old,
Which boasts t' have had the head of gold.
And such since thou canst make thine own content,
Strive, Wroth, to live long innocent.

Let others watch in guilty armes, and stand
The fury of a rash command,

Go enter breaches, meet the cannon's rage,
That they may sleep with scarres in age.

How blest art thou, canst love the countrey, Wroth, And shew their feathers shot, and cullours torne,

Whether by choyce, or fate, or both!

And, though so neere the citie and the court,
Art tane with neither's vice nor sport:

That at great times, art no ambitious guest
Of sheriffe's dinner, or maior's feast..
Nor com'st to view the better cloth of state;
The richer hangings, or crowne-plate;
Nor throng'st (when masquing is) to have a sight
Of the short braverie of the night;

To view the jewels, stuffes, the paines, the wit
There wasted, some not paid for yet!
But canst at home in thy securer rest,
Live with un-bought provision blest;

Free from proud porches or their guilded roofes,
'Mong'st loughing heards and solid hoofes:
Along'st the curled woods and painted meades,
Through which a serpent river leades

To some coole courteous shade, which he cals his,
And makes sleep softer than it is!

Or if thou list the night in watch to breake,
A-bed canst heare the loud stag speake,
In spring oft roused for their master's sport,
Who for it makes thy house his court;

Or with thy friends, the heart of all the yeare,
Divid'st upon the lesser deere;

In autumne, at the partrich mak'st a flight,
And giv'st thy gladder guests the sight;
And in the winter hunt'st the flying hare,
More for thy exercise than fare;

While all that follow their glad eares apply
To the full greatnesse of the cry:
Or hauking at the river or the bush,
Or shooting at the greedy thrush,

Thou dost with some delight the day out-weare,
Although the coldest of the yeare!

And brag that they were therefore borne.
Let this man sweat, and wrangle at the barre,
For every price in every jarre,

And change possessions, oftner with his breath,
Than either money, war, or death:

Let him, than hardest sires, more disinherit,
And each where boast it as his merit,

To blow up orphanes, widdows, and their states;
And think his power doth equall Fate's.

Let that go heape a masse of wretched wealth,
Purchas'd by rapine, worse than stealth,
And brooding o're it sit, with broadest eyes,
Not doing good, scarce when he dyes.

Let thousands more go flatter vice, and winne,
By being organes to great sin,

Get place and honour, and be glad to keepe
The secrets, that shall breake their sleepe:
And, so they ride in purple, eat in plate,
Though poyson, thinke it a great fate.
But thou, my Wroth, if I can truth apply,
Shalt neither that, nor this envy:

Thy peace is made; and, when man's state is well, 'Tis better, if he there can dwell.

God wisheth none should wracke on a strange shelfe:
To him man 's dearer, than t' himselfe.
And, howsoever we may thinke things sweet,
He alwayes gives what he knowes meet;
Which who can use is happy: such be thou.
Thy morning's and thy evening's vow
Be thankes to him, and earnest prayer, to finde
A body sound, with sounder minde;

To do thy countrey service, thy selfe right;
That neither want doe thee affright,

Nor death; but when tby latest sand is spent,
Thou maist thinke life a thing but lent.

IV.

TO THE WORLD.

A FAREWELL FOR A GENTLEWOMAN, VERTUOUS AND NOBLE.
FALSE world, good-night, since thou hast brought
That houre upon my morne of age,
Hence-forth I quit thee from my thought,
My part is ended on thy stage.
Doe not once hope, that thou canst tempt
A spirit so resolv'd to tread
Upon thy throat, and live exempt

From all the nets that thou canst spread.
I know thy formes are studied arts,

Thy subtill wayes, be narrow straits;
Thy curtesie but sudden starts,

And what thou call'st thy gifts are baits.
I know too, though thou strut, and paint,
Yet art thou both shrunke up, and old;
That onely fooles make thee a saint,

And all thy good is to be sold.
I know thou whole art but a shop

Of toyes, and trifles, traps, and snares,
To take the weake, or make them stop:
Yet art thou falser than thy wares.
And, knowing this, should I yet stay,

Like such as blow away their lives,
And never will redeeme a day,

Enamor'd of their golden gyves?
Or having scap'd, shall I returne,

And thrust my neck into the noose, From whence, so lately, I did burne,

With all my powers, my selfe to loose? What bird, or beast, is knowne so dull,

That fled his cage, or broke his chaine,
And tasting aire, and freedome, wull

Render his head in there againe ?
If these, who have but sense, can shun
The engines, that have them annoy'd;
Little, for me, had reason done,

If I could not thy ginnes avoid.
Yes, threaten, doe. Alas I feare

As little, as I hope from thee:

I know thou canst nor shew, nor beare
More hatred, than thou hast to me.
My tender, first, and simple yeares

Thou did'st abuse, and then betray;
Since stird'st up jealousies and feares,
When all the causes were away.
Then, in a soile hast planted me,

Where breathe the basest of thy fooles;
Where envious arts professed be,

And pride, and ignorance the schooles,
Where nothing is examin'd, weigh'd,
But, as 't is rumor'd, so beleev'd:
Where every freedome is betray'd,
And every goodnesse tax'd, or griev'd.
But, what we're borne for, we must beare:
Our fraile condition it is such,
That, what to all may happen here,

If't chance to me, I must not grutch.
Else, I my state should much mistake,
To harbour a divided thought
From all my kinde: that, for my sake,
There should a miracle be wrought.
No, I doe know, that I was borne

To age, misfortune, sicknesse, griefe:
But I will beare these, with that scorne,
As shall not need thy false reliefe.

Nor for my peace will I goe farre,

As wandrers doe, that still doe rome; But make my strengths, such as they are, Here in my bosome, and at home.

V.

SONG.

TO CELIA.

COME, my Celia, let us prove,
While we may, the sports of love;
Time will not be ours for ever,
He, at length, our good will sever.
Spend not then his gifts in vaine.
Sunnes, that set, may rise againe :
But, if once we loose this light,
'T is, with us, perpetuall night.
Why should we deferre our joyes?
Fame, and rumour are but toyes.
Cannot we delude the eyes
Of a few poore houshold spyes?
Or his easier eares beguile,
So removed by our wile?

'T is no sinne, love's fruit to steale, But the sweet theft to reveale:

To be taken, to be seene,

These have crimes accounted beene,

VI.

TO THE SAME.

KISSE me, sweet: the wary lover
Can your favours keepe, and cover,
When the common courting jay
All your bounties will betray.
Kisse againe: no creature comes.
Kisse, and score up wealthy summes
On my lips, thus hardly sundred,
While you breathe. First give a hundred,
Then a thousand, then another
Hundred, then unto the tother
Adde a thousand, and so more:
Till you equall with the store,
All the grasse that Rumney yeelds,
Or the sands in Chelsey fields,
Or the drops in silver Thames,
Or the stars, that guild his streames,
In the silent sommer-nights,
When youths ply their stoln delights,
That the curious may not know
How to tell 'hem as they flow,
And the envious, when they find
What their number is, be pin'd,

VII.

SONG.

THAT WOMEN ARE BUT MEN'S SHADDOWS,

FOLLOW a shaddow, it still flies you,
Seeme to flye it, it will pursue :
So court a mistris, she denies you;
Let her alone, she will court you.

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