FAIRE-VIRTVE, THE MISTRESS OF PHIL'ARETE. Written by George Wither.  Catul. Carm. xv▪ 
— nihil veremur  
Istos, qui inplatea, mod● huc, modo illuc  
I● re pretereunt sua occupati.  
LONDON, Printed for john Grismand. M.DC.XXII.   

THE STATIONER TO THE READER.  
THis, being one of the Authors first Poems, was composed many years agone; and unknown to him, gotten out of his custody by an acquaintance of his. And coming lately to my hands without a Name, it was thought to have so much resemblance of the Maker, that many, upon the first sight, undertook to guess who was Author of it: And, persuaded that it was likely also, to become profitable both to them, and me.  
Whereupon, I got it authorised, according to Order: intending to publish it, without further inquiry. But, attaining by chance a more perfect knowledge to whom it most properly belonged: I thought it fitting to acquaint him therewithal. And did so; desiring also, both his good will to publish the same, and leave to pass it under his Name. Both which, I found him very unwilling to permit; lest the seeming lightness of such a Subject, might somewhat disparage, the more serious Studies, which he hath since undertaken.  
Yet, doubting (this being got out of his Custod●●) some imperfecter Copies might hereafter be scattered abroad in writing, or, be unknown to him, imprinted: He was pleased (upon my importunities) to condescend that it might be published, without his Name. And his words were these.  
When (said he) I first composed it, I well liked thereof; and it well enough became my years: but now, I neither like, nor dislike it. That (therefore) it should be divulged, I desire not: and whether it be, or whether (if it happen so) it be approved or no, I care not. For this I am sure of: howsoever it be valued; it is worth as much as I prise it at: likely it is also to be as beneficial to the World, as the World hath been to me; and will be more than those who like it not, ever deserved at my hands.  
These were his speeches: And (if you looked for a Prologue; thus much he wished me to tell you, in stead thereof: because (as he said) he himself had somewhat else to do. Yet, (to acknowledge the truth) I was so earnest with him, that, as busy as he would seem to be, I got him to write this Epistle for me: And have thereunto set my Name. Which, he wished me to confess: Partly, to avoid the occasion of belying my Invention; and partly, because he thought some of you would suppose so much.  
I entreated him, to explain his meaning, in certain obscure passages. But, he told me, how that were to take away the employment of his Interpreters: Whereas, he would purposely, leave somewhat remaining doubtful, to see what Sir POLITIC WOULD-BEE, and his Companions could pick out of it.  
I desired him also, to set down, to what good purposes, this Poem would serve. But his Reply was: How, that would be well enough found out, in the perusing, by all such as had honest understandings: and they who are not so provided; he hopes will not read it. More, I could not get from him.  
Whether therefore, this MISTRESS OF PHIL'ARETE, be really a Woman, shadowed under the name of VIRTVE: or VIRTVE only, whose loveliness is represented by the Beauty of an excellent Woman: Or, whether it mean both together; I cannot tell you. But, thus much I dare promise for your money: that, here, you shall find familiarly expressed, both such Beauties as young men, are most entangled withal; and and the excellency also of such, as are most worthy their affection. That, seeing both impartially set forth, by him that was capable of both, they might the better settle their love on the best.  
Hereby also, those Women, who desire to be truly beloved, may know what makes them, so to be. And, seek to acquire those accomplishments of the Mind, which may endear them, when the sweetest Features of a beautiful Face, shall be converted into Deformities. And, here is described, that Loveliness of theirs, which is the principal object of wanton affection, to no worse end: but, that those, who would never have looked on this Poem (if Virtue and Goodness, had been therein, no otherwise represented, then as they are objects of the Soul) might, where they expected the satisfaction of their sensuality only; meet with that also, which would insinaute into them, an apprehension of more reasonable, and most excellent perfections. Yea, whereas, the common opinion of Youth hath been; that, only old men, and such as are unable, or past delighting in a bodily loveliness, are those who are best capable of the Minds perfections: And, that they do therefore so much prefer them before the other; because their Age, or stupidity hath deprived them of being sensible what pleasures they yield. Though, this be the vulgar error; yet, here it shall appear, that he, who was able to conceive the most excellent pleasingness, which could be apprehended in a Corporal Beauty; found it (even when he was most enamoured with it) far short of that unexpressible sweetness, which he discovered in a virtuous and well-tempered Disposition. And if this be not worth your money, keep it.  
JOHN MARRIOT.   

PHIL'ARETE TO HIS MISTRESS.  

Hail, thou fairest of all Creatures,  
Upon whom the Sun doth shine:  
Model of all rarest Features,  
And perfections most divine.  
Thrice All-haile: And blessed be,  
Those, that love, and honour thee.   

Of thy worth, this rural Story,  
Thy unworthy Swain hath penned:  
And, to thy ne're-ending glory,  
These plain Numbers doth commend.  
Which, ensuing Times shall warble,  
When 'tis lost, that's writ in Marble.   

Though thy praise, and high deservings  
Cannot all, be here expressed:  
Yet, my love, and true-obseruing,  
Someway, aught to be professed.  
And, where greatest love we see,  
Highest things attempted be.   

By thy Beauty, I have gained,  
To behold, the best perfections:  
By thy Love, I have obtained,  
To enjoy the best affections.  
And my tongue, to sing thy praise;  
Love, and Beauty, thus doth raise.   

What, although in rustic shadows,  
I, a Shepherd's breeding had?  
And, confined to these Meadows;  
So, in home-spunn Russet clad?  
Such as I, have now and then,  
Dared as much, as greater men.   

Though a stranger to the Muses,  
Young, obscured, and despised:  
Yet, such Art, thy Love infuses,  
That, I thus, have Poetized.  
Read; and be content to see,  
Thy admired Powre in me.   

And, oh grant, thou Sweetest Beauty,  
(Wherewith ever Earth was graced)  
That this Trophy of my Duty,  
May with Favour be embraced:  
And disdain not, in these Rhymes,  
To be sung, to aftertimes.   

Let those doters on Apollo,  
That adore the Muses, so,  
(And, like Geese, each other follow)  
See, what Love alone, can do.  
For, in Love-lays; Grove, and Field;  
Nor to Schools, nor Courts will yield.   

On this Glass, of thy perfection,  
If that any Women pry;  
Let them thereby take direction,  
To adorn themselves thereby.  
And, if ought amiss they view,  
Let them dress themselves anew.   

Youngmen, shall by this, acquainted  
With the truest Beauties grow:  
So, the Counterfeit, or painted,  
They may shun, when them they know.  
But, the Way, all will not find:  
For, some eyes have, yet are blind.   

Thee, entirely, I have loved,  
So, thy Sweetness, on me wrought;  
Yet, thy Beauty never moved,  
Ill temptations, in my thought.  
But, still did thy Beauty's Ray;  
Sunlike, drive those Fogs away.   

Those, that MISTRESSES are named,  
And for that, suspected be;  
Shall not need to be ashamed,  
If they pattern take by thee.  
Neither shall their SERVANTS fear,  
Favours, openly to wear.   

Thou, to no man favour dainest,  
But what's fitting to bestow;  
Neither, Servants entertainest,  
That can ever wanton grow.  
For, the more they look on thee;  
Their Desires still bettered be.   

This, thy Picture, therefore, show I  
Naked unto every eye.  
Yet, no fear of Rival know I,  
Neither touch of jealousy.  
For, the more make love to thee;  
I, the more shall pleased be.   

ay, am no Italian Lover,  
That will mew thee in a jail;  
But, thy Beauty I discover,  
English-like, without a veil.  
If, thou mayst be won away;  
Win and wear thee, he that may.   

Yet, in this, thou mayst believe me;  
(So indifferent though I seem)  
Death with tortures, would not grieve me,  
More, than loss of thy esteem.  
For, if VIRTVE me forsake;  
All, a scorn of me will make.   

Then, as I on Thee relying,  
Do no changing, fear in Thee:  
So, by my defects supplying,  
From all changing, keep thou me.  
That, unmatched we may prove  
Thou, for Beauty; I, for Love..   

Then, while their Loves, are forgotten,  
Who to Pride, and Lust were slaves;  
And, their Mistresses quite rotten,  
Lie vnthought on, in their graves.  
Kings and Queens (in their despite)  
Shall, to mind us, take delight.    

FAIRE-VIRTVE: OR, THE MISTRESS OF PHIL'ARETE.  
TWo pretty Rills do meet, and meeting make  
Within one valley, a large silver lake:  
About whose banks the fertile mountains stood,  
In ages passed bravely crowned with wood;  
Which lending Cold-sweet-shadowes, gave it grace,  
To be accounted Cynthia's Bathing place.  
And from her father Neptune's brackish Court,  
Fair Thetis thither often would resort,  
Attended by the Fishes of the Sea,  
Which in those sweeter waters came to plea.  
There, would the daughter of the Sea-God dive;  
And thither came the Land-Nymphs every Eve,  
To wait upon her: bringing for her brows,  
Rich garlands of sweet flowers, and Beechy boughs.  
For, pleasant was that Pool; and near it, then,  
Was neither rotten Mersh, nor boggy Fen.  
It was nor overgrown with boisterous Sedge,  
Nor grew there rudely then along the edge,  
A bending Willow, nor a pricky Bush,  
Nor broadleafd Flag, nor Reed, nor knotty Rush.  
But here, well ordered was a grove with Bowers:  
There grassy plots set round about with Flowers.  
Here, you might (through the water) see the land,  
Appear, strewed o'er with white or yellow sand.  
●onn, deeper was it; and the wind by whiffs.  
Would make it rise, and wash the little cliffs,  
On which, oft pluming sat (unfrighted then)  
The gagling Wild goose, and the snowwhite Swan:  
With all those flocks of Fowls, which to this day,  
Upon those quiet waters breed, and play.  
For, though those excellences wanting be,  
Which once it had; it is the same, that we  
By Transposition name the Ford of Arle.  
And out of which along a Chalky Marle)  
That River trils, whose waters wash the Fort,  
In which brave Arthur kept his royal Court.  
North-east (not far from this great Pool) there lies  
A tract of Beechy mountains, that arise  
With leasurely-ascending to such height,  
As from their tops the warlike I'll of Wight.  
You in the Ocean's bosom may espy,  
Though near two hundred furlongs thence it lie.  
The pleasant way, as up those hills you climb,  
Is strewed o'er, with Mariarome, and Thyme.  
Which grows unset. The hedge-rowes do not want  
The Cowslip, violet, Primrose, nor a plant,  
That freshly scents: as Birch both green and tall;  
Low Sallowes, on whose bloomings Bees do fall.  
Fair Woodbinds which, about the hedges twine;  
Smooth Privet, and the sharpesweete Eglantine.  
With many more, whose lea●es and blossoms fair,  
The Earth addorne, and oft perfumes the air.  
When you unto the highest do attain;  
An intermixture both of Wood and Plaine,  
You shall behold: which (though aloft it lie)  
Hath downs for sheep, and fields for husbandry▪  
So much (at least) as little needeth more,  
If not enough to merchandise their store.  
In every Row hath Nature planted there,  
Some banquet, for the hungry passenger.  
For here, the Haste-nut and Filbird grows;  
There Bulloes, and little further Sloes.  
On this hand, standeth a fair weilding-tree;  
On that, large thickets of black Cherries be.  
The shrubby fields, are Raspice Orchards there,  
The new feled woods, like Strabery-gardens are:  
And, had the King of Rivers blest those hills  
With some small number of such pretty Rills  
As flow elsewhere, Arcadia had not seen  
A sweeter plot of Earth than this had been.  
For what offence this Place was scanted so  
Of springing waters, no record doth show:  
Nor have they old tradition left, that tells;  
But till this day, at fifty fathom Wells  
The Shepherd's drink. And strange it was to hear  
Of any Swain that ever lived there,  
Who either in a Pastorall-Ode had skill,  
Or knew to set his fingers to a quill.  
For, rude they were who there inhabited,  
And to a dull contentment being bred,  
They no such art esteemed, nor took much heed  
Of any thing, the world without them did.  
e'en there; and in the least frequented place  
Of all these mountains, is a little space  
Of pleasant ground hemmed in with dropping trees,  
And those so thick, that Phoebus scarcely sees  
The earth they grow on once in all the year,  
Nor what is done among the shadows there.  
Along those lovely paths (where never came  
Report of Pan, or of Apollo's name,  
Nor rumour of the Muses till of late)  
Some Nymphs were wand'ring: and by chance, or Fate  
Upon a Land arrived, where they met  
The little flock of Pastor Philaret.  
They, were a troop of Beauties known well nigh  
Through all the Plains of happy Brittany.  
A Shepherd's lad was he, obscure and young,  
Who (being first that ever there had sung)  
In homely Verse, expressed Country loves;  
And only told them to the Beechy groves:  
As if to sound his name he never meant,  
Beyond the compass that his Sheep-walke went.  
They saw not him; nor them perceived he:  
For, in the branches of a Maple-tree  
He shrouded sat, and taught the hollow hill  
To Echo forth the Music of his quill:  
Whose tattling voice redoubled so the sound,  
That where he was concealed, they quickly found.  
And there, they heard him sing a Mad●igall;  
That soon betrayed his cunning to them all.  
Full rude it was no doubt, but such a Song,  
Those rustic, and obscured shades among,  
Was never heard (they say) by any care;  
Until his Muses had inspired him there.  
Though mean and plain, his Country habit seemed,  
Yet by his Song the Ladies rightly deemed,  
That either he had travailed abroad,  
Where Swains of better knowledge make abode.  
Or else, that some brave Nymph who used that Grove,  
Had dained to enrich him, with her love.  
Approaching nearer, therefore, to this Swain,  
They him saluted; and he, them again:  
In such good fashion, as well seemed to be  
According to their state and his degree.  
Which greetings, being passed; and much chat,  
Concerning him, the place, with this and that;  
He, to an Arbour doth those beauties bring;  
Where, he them prays to sit, they him to sing:  
And to express that untaught Country Art,  
In setting forth the Mistress of his hart;  
Which they o'erheard him practise, when unseen,  
He thought no ear had witness of it been.  
At first (as much unable) he refused;  
And seemed willing to have been excused,  
From such a task. For, tr●st me Nymphs (quoth he)  
I would not purposely uncivil be,  
Nor churlish in denying what you crave;  
But, as I hope Great Pan my flock will save,  
I rather wish, that I might heard of none,  
Enjoy my Music, by myself alone:  
Or, that the murmurs of some little Flood  
(joined with the friendly Echoes of the wood)  
Might be th'impartial● umpires of my wit,  
Then vent it, where the worla might hear of it.  
And doubtless, I had sung less loud while-ere,  
Had I but thought of any such so near.  
Not that I either wish obscurifide,  
Her matchless Beanty; or desire to hide  
Her sweet perfections. For, by Love I swear,  
The utmost happiness I aim at here,  
It but to compass worth enough to raise  
A high-built Trophy equal with her praise.  
Which (fairest Ladies) I shall hope in vain:  
For, I was meanly bred on yonder Plain.  
And, though I can well prove my Blood to be  
Derived from no ignoble Stems to me:  
Yet Fate and Time them so obscured and crossed,  
That with their Fortunes their esteem is lost.  
And whatsoe'er repute I strive to win,  
Now, from myself alone, it must begin.  
For, I have nor estate, nor friends, nor fame,  
To purchase either credit to my name,  
Or gain a good Opinion; though I do  
Ascend the height I shall aspire unto.  
If any of those virtues yet I have,  
Which honour to my Predecessors gave,  
there's all that's left me. And though some contemns  
Such needy jewels; yet it was for them,  
My Fair-one did my humble suit affect,  
And deigned my adventurous love respect.  
And by their help, I passage hope to make  
Through such poor things as I dare undertake.  
But, you may say; what goodly thing alas!  
Can my despised meanness bring to pass?  
Or what great Monument of honour raise  
To Virtue, in these Vice abounding days?  
In which (a thousand times) more honour finds,  
Ignoble gotten means, then noble minds?  
Indeed, the world affordeth small reward  
For honest minds; and therefore her regard  
I seek not after: neither do I care,  
If I have bliss, how others think I fare.  
For, so my thoughts have rest, it irks not me,  
Though none but I, do know how blest they be.  
Here therefore, in these groves and hidden plains,  
I pleased sit alone; and many strains  
I carol to myself, these hills among:  
Where no man comes to interrupt my Song.  
Whereas, if my rude lays make known I should,  
Beyond their home; perhaps, some Carpers would  
(Because they have not heard from whence we be)  
Traduce, abuse, and scoff both them and me.  
For, if our great and learned Shepherds (who  
Are graced with wit, and fame, and favours to,)  
With much ado, escape uncensurd may;  
What hopes have I to pass unscoft I pray,  
Who yet unto the Muses am unknown?  
And live unhonoured, here among mine own?  
A gadding humour seldom taketh me,  
To range out further than yonn mountains be:  
Nor hath applausive Rumour borne my name  
Upon the spreading wings of sounding Fame.  
Nor can I think (fair Nymphs) that you resort  
For other purpose, then to make a sport  
At that simplicity which shall appear  
Among the rude untutored Shepherds here.  
I know that you my Noble Mistress ween  
At best, a homely Milkmaid on the Green;  
Or some such Country Lass, as tasked stays  
At servile labour until Holy days.  
For, poor men's virtues so neglected grow,  
And are now prized at a rate so low,  
As 'tis impossible, You should be brought,  
To let it with belief possess your thought,  
That any Nymph whose love might worthy be;  
Would deign to cast respective eyes on me.  
You see I live, possessing none of those  
Gay things, with which the world enamoured grows.  
To woe a Courtly Beauty, I have neither  
Rings, Bracelets, jewels, nor a Scarf, nor Feather.  
I use no double died Cloth to wear;  
No Scrip embroidered richly do I bear:  
No silken Belt, nor Sheephook laid with pearls,  
To win me favour from the Shepherd's Girls.  
No place of office, or Command I keep,  
But this my little Flock of homely sheep.  
And in a word; the sum of all my pelf  
Is this; I am the Master of myself.  
No doubt; in Courts of Princes you have been,  
And all the pleasures of the Palace seen.  
There, you beheld brave Courtly passages,  
Between Heroes and their Mistresses.  
You, there perhaps (in presence of the King)  
Have heard his learned Bards and Poets sing.  
And what contentment then, can wood, or field,  
To please your curious understandings yield?  
I know, you walked hither, but to prove,  
What silly Shepherds do conceive of love:  
Or to make trial how our simpleness  
Can passions force, or Beauty's power express:  
And when you are departed, you will joy,  
To laugh, or descant on the Shepherd's boy.  
But yet (I vow) if all the Art I had  
Could any more esteem, or glory add  
To her unmatched worth; I would not weigh  
What you intended. Prithee lad, quoth they,  
Distrustful of our Curtsy do not seem.  
Her Nobleness can never want esteem;  
Nor thy concealed Measures be disgraced,  
Though in a meaner person they were placed:  
If thy too-modestly reserved Quill,  
But reach that height, which we suppose it will.  
Thy meanness or obscureness cannot wrong,  
The Nymph thou shalt eternize in thy Song.  
For, as it higher rears thy glory, that  
A noble Mistress thou hast aimed at:  
So, more unto her honour it will prove,  
That whilst deceiving shadows others move,  
Her constant eyes, could pass unmoved by,  
The subtle times bewitching bravery;  
And those obscured virtues love in thee,  
That with despised meanness clouded be.  
Now then, for her sweet sake, whose Beauteous eye,  
Hath filled thy soul with heavenly Poesy,  
Sing in her praise some new inspired strain:  
And, if within our power there shall remain,  
A favour to be done may pleasure thee:  
A●ke, and obtain it whatsoe'er it be.  
Fair Ladies quoth the lad, such words as those,  
Compel me can● and, therewithal he rose;  
Returned them thanks, obeisance made, and than,  
Down sat again, and thus to sing began.  
YOU, that at a blush can tell,  
Where the best perfections dwell;  
And the substance can conjecture,  
By a shadow, or a Picture:  
Come, and try, if you by this;  
Know my Mistress, who she is.  
For, though I am far unable  
Here to match Apelles' table,  
Or draw Zeuxes, cunning Lines,  
Who, so painted Bacchus' Vines,  
That the hungry Birds did muster,  
Round the counterfeited Cluster.  
Though, I vaunt not to inherit,  
Petrarchs, yet unequaled spirit;  
Nor to quaff the sacred Well,  
Half so deep as Astrophill:  
Though, the much commended Celi●,  
Lovely Laura, Stella, Delia,  
(Who in former times excelled)  
Live in Lines unparaled;  
Making us believe 'twere much,  
Earth should yield another such.  
Yet, assisted but by Nature,  
I assay to paint a Creatnre  
Whose rare worth, in future years,  
Shall be praised, as much as theirs.  
Nor let any think amiss,  
That I have presumed this:  
For, a gentle Nymph is she,  
And hath often honoured me.  
she's, a noble spark of light,  
In each part so exquisite,  
Had she in times passed been,  
They had made her, beauty's Queen.  
Then, shall cowardly despair,  
Let the most unblemished fair,  
For default of some poor Art  
(Which her favour may impart)  
And the sweetest Beauty fade,  
That was ever borne or made?  
Shall, of all the fair ones, she  
Only so unhappy be;  
As to live in such a Time,  
In so rude, so dull a Clime,  
Where no spirit can ascend  
High enough, to apprehend  
Her unprized excellence,  
Which lies hid from common sense?  
Never shall a stain so vile,  
Blemish this, our Peets I'll.  
I myself, will rather run,  
And seek out for Helicon.  
ay, will wash, and make me clean,  
In the waves of Hippocrene:  
And in spite of Fortune's bars,  
Climb the Hill that braves the stars.  
Where, if I can get no Muse  
That will any skill infuse,  
(Or my just attempt prefer)  
I will make a Muse of Her:  
Whose kind heat shall soon distil,  
Art, into my ruder quill.  
By her favour, I will gain  
Help, to reach so rare a Strain:  
That the learned Hills shall wonder,  
How the untaught valleys under,  
Met with Raptures so divine,  
Without knowledge of the NINE.  
ay, that am a Shepherd's Swain,  
Piping on the lowly plain,  
And no other Music can,  
Then what learned I have of Pan.  
ay, who never sung the Lays,  
That deserve Apollo's bays,  
Hope not only, here to frame,  
Measures, which shall keep Her name,  
From the spite of wasting Times;  
But (enshrined in sacred Rhymes)  
Place her, where her form divine,  
Shall to after ages shine:  
And without respect of Odds,  
Vie renown with Demigods.  
Then, whilst of her praise I sing,  
Hearken Valley, Grove and Spring;  
Listen to me sacred Fountains,  
Solitary Rocks, and Mountains:  
Satyrs, and you wanton Elves,  
That do nightly sport yourselves.  
Shepherds, you that on the Reed,  
Whistle while your lambs do feed:  
Aged Woods, and Floods, that know,  
What hath been long times ago.  
Your more serious Notes among,  
Hear, how I can in my Song,  
Set a Nymph's perfection forth:  
And, when you have heard her worth;  
Say, if such another Lass,  
Ever known to mortal was.  
Listen Lordlings; you that most,  
Of your outward honours boast.  
And you Gallants; that think scorn,  
We to lowly fortunes borne,  
Should attain to any graces,  
Where, you look for sweet embraces.  
See, if all those vanities,  
Whereon your affection lies.  
Or the Titles, or the power,  
By your Father's virtues your,  
Can your Mistresses enshrine,  
In such state, as I will mine:  
Who am forced, to importune  
Favours, in despite of Fortune.  
Beauties listen; chiefly you,  
That yet know not Virtues due.  
You, that think there are no sports,  
Nor no honours but in Courts.  
(Though of thousands there lives not  
Two, but die and are forgot:)  
See, if any Palace yields  
Aught more glorious, than the Fields.  
And consider well, if we  
May not as highflying be  
In our thoughts, as you that sing  
In the Chambers of a King.  
See; if our contented minds,  
Whom Ambition never blinds:  
(We, that clad in homespun grey,  
On our own sweet Meadows play)  
Cannot honour (if we please)  
Where we list as well as these.  
Or as well of worth approve;  
Or with equal passions love.  
See, if beauties may not touch  
Our soone-loving hearts as much:  
Or our services effect  
Favours, with as true respect  
In your good conceits to rise,  
As our painted Butterflies.  
And you Fairest give her room,  
When your Sex's pride doth come:  
For that Subject of my song,  
I invoke these Groves among,  
To be witness of the Lays,  
Which I carol in her praise.  
And because she soon will see,  
If my Measures faulty be;  
Whilst I chant them, let each Rhyme  
Keep a well proportioned time:  
And with strains that are divine,  
Meet her thoughts in every line.  
Let each accent there, present  
To her Soul a new content;  
And, with ravish so cease her,  
She may feel the height of pleasure.  
You enchanting spells, that lie,  
Lurking in sweet Poesy:  
(And to none else will appear,  
But to those that worthy are)  
Make Her know there is a power  
Ruling in these Charms of your;  
That transcends (a thousand heights)  
Ordinary men's delights:  
And can leave within her breast,  
Pleasures, not to be expressed.  
Let her linger, on each strain,  
As if she would hear't again;  
And were loath to part from thence,  
Till she had the quintessence,  
Out of each conceit she meets,  
And had stored her, with those sweets.  
Make her, by your Art to see:  
I, that am her Swain, was he,  
Unto whom all beauties here,  
Were alike, and equal dear.  
That I could of freedom boast,  
And of favours with the most:  
Yet, now (nothing more affecting)  
Sing of Her, the rest neglecting.  
Make her heart, with full Compassion,  
judge the merit of true passion;  
And, as much my love prefer,  
As I strive to honour Her.  
Last; you, that will (I know)  
Hear me, wh'ere you should or no.  
You, that seek to turn all Flowers,  
By your breaths infectious powers,  
Into such rank loathsome weeds,  
As your dunghill nature breeds.  
Let your hearts be chaste, or here  
Come not, till you purge them clear.  
Mark; and mark then, what is worst:  
For, what ere it seem at first;  
If you bring a modest mind,  
You shall nought immodest find.  
But, if any too severe,  
Hap to lend a partial ear;  
Or, out of his blindness yawn,  
Such a word, as Oh profane:  
Let him know thus much from me,  
If here's aught profane, 'tis he;  
Who applies these excellences,  
Only to the touch of senses:  
And, dim sighted, cannot see,  
Where the soul of this, may be.  
Yet, that no offence may grow,  
'tis their choice, to stay, or go.  
Or, if any for despite,  
Rather comes, then for delight:  
For his presence I'll not pray,  
Nor his absence: come he may.  
Critics shall admitted be,  
Though I know they'll carp at me.  
For I neither fear nor care,  
What in this, their censures are.  
If the Verse here used, be  
Their dislike; it liketh me.  
If my Method they deride,  
Let them know, Love is not tie  
In his free Discourse, to choose  
Such strict rules-as Artsmen use.  
These may prate of Love; but they,  
Know him not: for He will play  
From the matter, now and then,  
Off and on, and off again.  
If this Prologue tedious seem,  
Or the rest too long they deem:  
Let them know, my love they win,  
Though they go ere I begin,  
Just as if they should attend me,  
Till the last, and there commend me.  
For, I will for no man's pleasure  
Change a Syllable or measure:  
Neither for their praises add  
Aught to mend what they think bad:  
Since it never was my fashion,  
To make work of Recreation.  
Pedants shall not tie my strains,  
To our Antique Poet's veins;  
As if we, in latter days,  
Knew to love, but not to praise.  
Being borne as free as these,  
I will sing, as I shall please;  
Who, as well new paths may run,  
As the best before have done.  
I disdain to make my Song,  
For their pleasures short or long.  
If I please I'll end it here:  
If I list I'll sing this year.  
And, though none regard of it,  
By myself I pleased can sit,  
And, with that contentment cheer me▪  
As if half the world did hear me.  
But because I am assured,  
All are either so conjured,  
As they will my Song attend,  
With the patience of a friend;  
Or (at least) take note, that I  
Care not much: now willingly  
I these goodly Colours lay,  
Wind, nor Rain, shall we are away.  
But retain their purest glass,  
When the Statues made of brass,  
For some Princes more renown,  
Shall be wholly overthrown:  
Or (consumed with cankered rust)  
Lie neglected in the dust.  
And my Reason gives direction,  
(When I sing of such perfection)  
First, those beauties to declare,  
Which (though hers) without her are.  
To advance her fame, I find,  
Those are of a triple kind.  
Privileges she hath store,  
At her birth, since, and before.  
From before her birth, the fame,  
She of high descents may claim;  
(Whose wel-gotten honours, may  
Her deserving more display)  
For, from heavenly race she springs,  
And from high and mighty Kings.  
At her birth; she was by Fate  
In those Parents fortunate,  
Whose estates and virtues stood,  
Answerable to their Blood.  
Then, the Nation, Time, and Place,  
To the rest may add some grace.  
For the People, with the Clime,  
And the fashions of the time;  
(In all which she hath been blest,  
By enjoying them at best)  
Do not only mend the features,  
But oft times make better natures.  
Whereas, those who hap not so,  
Both deformed, and ruder grow.  
In these Climes, and latter days,  
To deserve sweet Beauties praise,  
(Where so many females dwell,  
That each seemeth to excel)  
In more glory twenty fold,  
Than it was in days of old,  
When our ordinary Fair ones  
Might have been esteemed rare ones;  
And have made a subject fit,  
For their bravest Poets wit.  
Little P●ush-lights, or a spark,  
Shineth fairly in the dark:  
And, to him occasion gives  
That from sight of lesser lives  
To adore it: yet the Ray  
Of one Torch will take away  
All the light of twenty more,  
That shined very well before.  
So, those petty Beauties, which  
Made the times before us rich;  
Though but sparkles seemed a flame,  
Which hath been increased by Fame,  
And their true affections, who  
Better never lived to know.  
Whereas, her if they had seen,  
She had sure adored been,  
And ta●ght Ages past, to sing  
Sweeter in their Sonneting.  
Such a Ray, so clear, so bright,  
Had out-shined all the light,  
Of a thousand such as theirs,  
Who were then esteemed Stars;  
And would have enlightened, near  
Half the world's wide Hemisphere.  
She is fairest, that may pass  
For a fair one, where the Lass  
Trips it on the Country green,  
That may equal Spartas Queen.  
Where (in every street you see)  
Throngs of Nymphs and Ladies be,  
That a● fair enough to move  
Angels; and enamour love.  
She must matchless features bring  
That now moves a Muse to sing,  
When as one small Province may  
Show more Beauties in a day,  
Then the half of Europe could,  
Breed them in an age of old.  
Such is she, and such a lot  
Hath her rare perfection got.  
Since her birth; to make the colour  
Of so true a Beauty fuller;  
And to give a better grace  
To that sweetness in the face:  
She, hath all the furtherance had,  
Noble educations add.  
And not only knoweth all,  
Which our Ladies, Courtship call,  
With those knowledges, that do  
Grace her sex, and suit thereto:  
But she hath attained to find,  
(What is rare with womankind)  
Excellencies, whereby she  
May in soul delighted be;  
And reap more contentment, than  
One of twenty thousand can.  
By this means, hath bettered been,  
All without her, and within.  
For, it hath by adding Arts,  
To addorne her native parts,  
Raised to a noble flame,  
(Which shall lighten forth her fame)  
Those dear sparks of sacred fire,  
Which the Muses did inspire  
At her birth: that she complete,  
Might with them befit a seat.  
But, perhaps I do amiss,  
To insist so long on this.  
These, are superficial things;  
And but slender shaddowing,  
To the work I have in hand.  
Neither can you understand,  
What her excellence may be,  
Till herself desribed you see.  
Nor can mine, or any pen,  
Paint her half so lovely then,  
As she is indeed. For, here  
Might those Deities appear,  
Which young Paris viewed, at will,  
Naked, upon Ida hill;  
That I from those three might take,  
All their beauties One to make  
(Those, no question well compact,  
Would have made up one exact)  
Something yet, we miss of might,  
To express her sweetness right,  
Juno's majesty would fit;  
Venus' beauty, Pallas wit:  
Might have brought to pattern hers,  
In some showed particulars.  
But, they never can express,  
Her whole frame or worthiness:  
With those excellences, which  
Make both soul, and body rich.  
Pallas sometimes was untoward,  
Venus' wanton, juno froward:  
Yea, all three infected were,  
With such faults as women are.  
And, though falsely Deified,  
Frailties had, which she'll deride.  
By herself, must therefore she,  
Or by nothing patterned, be.  
And I hope to paint her so,  
By herself; that you shall know,  
I have served no common Dame,  
Of mean worth, or vulgar fame,  
But a Nymph that's fairer than,  
Pen, or Pencil, portrait can.  
And to morrow if you stray,  
Back again this uncoth way:  
I my simple art will show:  
But, the time prevents me now.  
For, except at yonder glade,  
All the Land is under shade.  
That, before these Ewes be told,  
Those my Wethers in the fold,  
Ten young weanlings driven down  
To the well beneath the Town;  
And my Lambkins changed from  
Brome leaze, to the Mead at home:  
'twill be far in night: and so,  
I shall make my father woe  
For my stay, and be in fear  
Some what is mischanced here.  
On your way, I'll therefore bring you,  
And a Song or two I'll sing you,  
Such as I (half in despair)  
Made when first I wooed my Fair:  
Whereunto my Boy shall play,  
That my voice assist, it may.  

COme my Muse, if thou disdain,  
All my comforts are bereft me;  
No delight doth now remain,  
I nor friend, nor flock have left me,  
They are fcattered on the plain.   

(Men, alas) are too severe,  
And make scoffs at Lover's Fortunes;  
Women, hearted like the Bear,  
That regards not who importunes,  
But, doth all in pieces tear.   

If I should my sorrows show  
Unto Rivers, Springs, or Fountains,  
They are senseless of my woe;  
So are groves, and rocks, and mountains.  
Then, oh whither shall I go?   

Means of harbour me to shield  
From despair; Ah, know you any?  
For, nor City, Grange, nor Field  
(Though they lend content to many)  
Unto me, can comfort yield.   

I have wept and sighed to.  
For compassion to make trial:  
Yea, done all that words can do,  
Yet have nothing but denial.  
What way is there then to woo?   

Shall I swear, protest, and vow?  
So have I done most extremely.  
Should I die? I know not how.  
For, from all attempts unseemly,  
Love, and Virtue, keeps me now.   

I have heard that Time prevails;  
But I fear me 'tis a fable.  
Time, and all endeavour fails;  
To bear more, my heart's unable,  
Yet none careth what it ails.   

Lines, to some have oped the door,  
And got entrance for affection.  
Words well spoken, much implore  
By the Gestures good direction:  
But a Look doth ten times more.   

'tis the Eye that only reads,  
To the heart, loves deepest Lectures.  
By a moving look it pleads,  
More than common sense conjectures:  
And, a way to pity leads.   

This, I knowing did observe,  
(both by Words, & Looks complaining)  
Yet, for pity I may starve:  
There's no hope of my obtaining;  
Till I better can deserve.   

Yea, and he that thinks to win  
By desert, may be deceived.  
For, they who have worthiest been,  
Of their right have been bereaved,  
And a Groom admitted in.   

Wherefore Muse, to thee I call;  
Thou (since nothing else avails me)  
Must redeem me from my thrall.  
If thy sweet enchantment fails me,  
Then adieu, love, life, and all.   

2.  
TEll me my hart, what Thoughts these pant move?  
My Thoughts of LOVE.  
What Flames are these, that set thee so on fire?  
Flames of DESIRE.  
What Means hast thou, contentments flower to crop?  
No Means but HOPE.  
Yet let us feed on Hope, and Hope the best.  
For, they amid their griefs are something blest;  
Whose Thoughts, & Flames, & Means, have such free scope,  
They may at once, both LOVE, DESIRE, and HOPE.   

But say; what Fruit will love at last obtain?  
Fruitless DISDAIN.  
What will those Hopes prove, which yet seem so fair?  
Hopeless DESPAIR.  
What End shall run those passions out of breath?  
An endless DEATH.  
Oh can there be such cruelty in Love?  
And doth my Fortune so ungentle prove,  
She will no Fruit, nor Hope, nor End bequeath,  
But cruelest DISDAIN, DESPAIR, and DEATH?   

Then what new Study shall I now apply?  
Study to DIE.  
How might I end my Care, and dye content?  
Care to REPENT.  
And what good Thoughts may make my end more holy?  
Think on thy FOLLY.  
Yes, so I will; and since my Fate can give  
No Hope, but ever without Hope to live.  
My Studies, Cares, and Thoughts, i'll all apply.  
To weigh my FOLLY well, REPENT and DIE.   

3.  
SAD Eyes what do you ail  
To be thus ill disposed?  
Why doth your sleeping fail,  
Now all men's else are closed?  
Wast I, that ne'er did bow  
In any servile duty;  
And will you make me, now,  
A slave to Love and Beauty?   

What though thy Mistress smile,  
And in her love affects thee?  
Let not her eye beguile,  
I fear she disrespects thee.  
Do not poor heart depend  
On those vain thoughts that fill thee;  
They'll fail thee in the end,  
So must thy passions kill thee.   

What hopes have I, that she  
will hold her favours ever;  
When so few women be,  
That constant can persever?  
What ere she do protest,  
When Fortunes do deceive me;  
Then she, with all the rest,  
I fear, alas! will leave me.   

Whilst youth, & strength remains,  
With art that may commend her;  
Perhaps, she nought disdains,  
Her servant should attend her.  
But, it is one to ten,  
If crosses overtake me;  
She will not know me, then,  
But scorn, and so forsake me.   

Shall then in earnest truth,  
My careful eyes observe her?  
Shall I consurne my youth,  
And short my time to serve her?  
Shall I, beyond my strength,  
Let passions torments prove me,  
To hear her say, at length,  
Away, I cannot love thee?   

Oh, rather let me dye,  
Whilst I thus gentle find her;  
'twere worse than death, if I,  
Should find she proves unkinder.  
One frown (though but in jest)  
Or one unkindness, feigned,  
Would rob me of more rest,  
Then ere could be regained.   

But, in her eyes I find,  
Such signs of pity moving;  
She cannot be unkind:  
Nor err, nor fail in loving.  
And, on her forehead, this,  
Seems written to relieve me;  
My heart no joy shall miss,  
That Love, or She, can give me.   

Which if I find, I vow,  
My service shall persever:  
The same that I am now,  
I will continue ever.  
No others high degree,  
Nor beauteous look shall change me.  
My Love shall constant be,  
And no estate estrange me.   

When other noble Dames  
By greater men attended;  
Shall with their Lives, and Names,  
Have all their glories ended;  
With fairest Queens shall she,  
Sat sharing equal glory:  
And Times to come, shall be,  
Delighted with our Story.   

In spite of others hates,  
More honour I will do her,  
Then those, that with Estates,  
And helps of Fortune woo her.  
Yea, that true worth I spy,  
Though Monarches strove to grace it,  
They should not reach more high,  
Then I dare hope to place it.   

And though I never vaunt,  
What favours are possessed,  
Much less content I won,  
Then if they were expressed.  
Let others make their mirth,  
To blab each kiss, or toying;  
I know no bliss on earth,  
Like, secret Love enjoying.   

And this shall be the worst,  
Of all that can betide me;  
If I, like some accursed,  
Should find my hopes deride me:  
My Cares will not be long,  
I know which way to mend them;  
I'll think who did the wrong,  
Sigh, break my heart, and end them.   
Hail fair Beauties, and again,  
Hail to all your goodly train.  
What I promised yesterday,  
If it please you, hear ye may:  
For, now once begun have I,  
Sing I will, though none were by.  
And, though freely on I run,  
Yet confused paths to shun,  
First, that part shallbe disclosed,  
That's of Elements composed.  
There, the two unequal pair,  
Water, Fire, Earth and Air.  
(Each one suiting a Complexion,)  
Have so cunning a Commixtion;  
As they, in proportion sweet,  
With the rarest temper meet.  
Either, in as much as needeth,  
So as neither, aught exceedeth.  
This pure substance, is the same,  
Which the Body we do name.  
Were that, of immortal stuff;  
'tis refin'd and pure enough,  
To be called a Soul: for sure,  
Many Souls are not so pure.  
I (that with a serious look  
Note of this rare Moddel took)  
Find, that Nature in their places,  
So well couched all the Graces,  
As the Curious't eyes that be,  
Can nor blot, nor blemish see.  
Like a Pine it groweth straight,  
Reaching an approved height:  
And hath all the choice perfections,  
That inflame the best affections.  
In the motion of each part,  
Nature seems to strive with Art,  
Which her gestures most shall bless,  
With the gifts of Pleasingness.  
When she sits; me, thinks, I see,  
How all virtues fixed be,  
In a frame; whose constant mould,  
Will the same unchanged hold.  
If you note her when she moves,  
Cytherea drawn with doves:  
May come learn such winning motions,  
As will gain to love's devotions,  
More than all her painted wiles;  
Such as tears, or sighs, or smiles.  
Some, whose bodies want true graces,  
Have sweet features in their faces:  
Others, that do miss them there,  
Lovely are some other where,  
And to our desires do fit,  
In behaviour, or in wit:  
Or some inward worth appearing,  
To the soul, the soul endearing:  
But, in her your eye may find,  
All that's good in Womankind.  
What in others we prefer,  
Are but sundry parts of her:  
Who, most perfect, doth present,  
What might one, and all content.  
Yea, he that in love still ranges,  
And each day, or hourly changes;  
(Had he judgement but to know,  
What perfection in her grow)  
There would find the spring of store,  
Swear a faith, and change no more.  
Neither in the total frame,  
Is she only void of blame;  
But, each part surveyed a sunder,  
Might beget both love and wonder.  
If you dare to look so high,  
Or behold such majesty;  
Lift your wondering eyes, and see,  
Whether aught can bettered be.  
there's her Hair, with which Love angel's,  
And beholds eyes entangles.  
For, in those fair curled snares,  
They are hampered unawares:  
And compelled to swear a duty,  
To her sweet inthrauling beauty.  
In my mind, 'tis the most fair,  
That was ever called hair,  
Somewhat brighter than a brown,  
And her Tresses waving down,  
At full length, and so dispread:  
Mantles her from foot to head.  
If you saw her Arched Brow,  
Tell me pray, what Art knows how  
To have made it in a line,  
More exact, or more divine.  
Beauty there may be diseried,  
In the height of all her pride,  
'tis a meanly rising plain,  
Whose pure white hath many a vain,  
Interlacing like the springs,  
In the earth's enamiling.  
If the tale be not a toy,  
Of the little winged Boy;  
When he means to strike a heart,  
Thence, he throws the fatal dart:  
Which of wounds still makes a pair,  
One of Love, one of Despair.  
Round her visage: or so near,  
To a roundness doth appear,  
That no more of length it takes,  
Than what best proportion makes.  
Short her Chin is; and yet so,  
As it is just long enough:  
Lovelines, doth seem to glory,  
In that circling Promontory.  
Pretty moving features skip,  
'twixt that hillock and the lip:  
If you note her, but the while  
She is pleased to speak, o● smile.  
And her Lips (that show no dulness)  
Full are, in the meanest fullness:  
Those, the leaves be, whose unfolding,  
Brings sweet pleasures to beholding:  
For, such pearls they do disclose,  
Both the Indies match not those:  
Yet, are so in order placed,  
As their whiteness is more graced.  
Each part is so well disposed,  
And her dainty mouth composed,  
So, as there is no distortion,  
Misbeseemes that sweet proportion.  
When her ivory Teeth she buries,  
'twixt her two enticing cherries,  
There appears such pleasures hidden,  
As might tempt what were forbidden.  
If you look again the while,  
She doth part those lips in smiles:  
'tis as when a flash of light,  
Breaks from heaven to glad the night.  
Other parts my pencil crave,  
But those lips I cannot leave;  
For (me thinks) I should go,  
And forsake those Cherries so.  
there's a kind of excellence,  
Holds me from departing hence.  
I would tell you what it were,  
But my cunning fails me there.  
They are like in their discloses,  
To the morning's dewy roses:  
That beside the name of fair,  
Cast perfumes that sweet the Air.  
Melting-soft her kisses be,  
And had I, now, two or three;  
(More inspired, by their touch)  
I had praised them twice as much.  
But sweet Muses mark ye how,  
Her fair eyes do check me now,  
That I seemed to pass them so:  
And their praises over go:  
And yet blame me not, that I  
Would so fain have past them by.  
For, I feared to have seen them,  
Lest there were some danger in them.  
Yet, such gentle looks they lend,  
As might make her foe, a friend;  
And by their allure move,  
All beholders, unto love.  
Such a power is also there,  
As will keep those thoughts in fear;  
And command enough I saw,  
To hold impudence in awe.  
There, may he that knows to love,  
Read contents, which are above,  
Their ignoble aims, who know  
Nothing, that so high doth grow.  
Whilst she me beholding is,  
My hart dares not think amiss:  
For, her sight most piercing clear,  
Seems to see, what's written there.  
Those bright Eyes, that with their light,  
Often times have blest my sight,  
And in turning thence their shining,  
Left me in sad darkness pining:  
Are the rarest, loveliest grey.  
And do cast forth such a ray;  
As the man, that black prefers,  
More would like this grey of hers.  
When their matchless beams she shrouds,  
'tis like Cynthia hid in Clouds.  
If again she show them light,  
'tis like morning after night.  
And, 'tis worthy well beholding,  
With how many a pretty folding,  
Her sweet eye lids grace that fair,  
Meanly fringed with beaming hair:  
Whereby, neatly overspread,  
Those bright lamps are shadowed.  
'twixt the Eyes, no hollow place,  
Wrinkle nor undecent space,  
Disproportions her in aught;  
Though by Envy, faults were sought.  
On those Eyebrows never yet,  
Did disdainful scowling sit.  
Love and Goodness gotten thither,  
Sat on equal thrones together;  
And do throw just scorn on them,  
That their government contemn.  
Then (almost obscured) appears  
Those her jewell-gracing Ears,  
Whose own Beauties more adome,  
Then the richest Pearl that's worn  
By the proudest Persian Dames,  
Or the best that Nature frames.  
There, the voice (in love's Meanders  
Those their pretty cirkling, wanders:  
Whose rare turnings will admit,  
No rude speech to enter it.  
Stretching from mount Forehead lies,  
Beauty's Cape betwixt her eyes.  
Which two Chrystall-passing lakes,  
Love's delightful Isthmus makes;  
Neither more nor less extending,  
Then most meriteth commending.  
Those, in whom that part hath been,  
Best deserving praises seen:  
Or, (surueid without affection)  
Came the nearest to perfection.  
Would scarce handsome ones appear,  
If with her compared they were.  
For, it is so much excelling,  
That it passeth means of telling.  
On the either side of this,  
loves most lovely Prospect is.  
Those her smiling Cheeks, whose colour  
Comprehends true Beauty fuller,  
Than the curious't mixtures can,  
That are made by art of Man.  
It is Beauty's Garden plot,  
Where, as in a True-love-knot,  
So, the Snowy Lily grows,  
Mixed with the Crimson Rose,  
That, as friends they joined be.  
Yet, they seem to disagree,  
Whether of the two shall reign;  
And the Lilies oft obtain  
Greatest sway, unless a blush  
Help the Roses at a push.  
Hollow fall, none there are;  
there's no wrinkle, there's no scar:  
Only there's a little Mole,  
Which from Venus' cheek was stole.  
If it were a thing in Nature,  
Possible, that any Creature,  
Might decaying life repair  
Only by the help of Air:  
There were no such Salve for death,  
As the balm of her sweet breath.  
Or, if any humane power,  
Might detain the Soul an hour,  
From the flesh to dust bequeathing,  
It would linger on her breathing:  
And be half in mind, that there;  
More than mortal pleasures were.  
And whose fortune were so fair,  
As to draw so sweet an air,  
Would no doubt, let slighted lie,  
The perfumes of Arabia.  
For the English Eglantine,  
Doth through envy of her, pine.  
Violets, and Roses to;  
Fears that she will them undo.  
And, it seems that in her breast,  
Is composed the Phoenix nest.  
But, descend a while mine eye.  
See, if polished ivory,  
Or the finest sleeced flocks,  
Or the whitest Albi●n Rocks;  
For comparisons may stand,  
To express that snowy hand.  
When she draws it from her glove,  
It hath virtue to remove,  
Or dispersed; if there be aught,  
Cloudeth the beholder's thought.  
If that palm but toucheth your,  
You shall feel a secret power  
Cheer your heart; and glad it more,  
Though it drooped with grief before.  
Through the veins, disposed true  
Crimson, yields a Saphir hue:  
Which adds grace, and more delight,  
By embracing with the white.  
Smooth, and moist, and soft, and tender,  
Are her palms; the fingers slender;  
Tipped with mollified Pearl.  
And if that transformed Girl,  
Whose much cunning, made her dare,  
With love's daughter to compare,  
Had that hand worn; maugre spite,  
She had shamed the Goddess quite.  
For, there is in every part,  
Nature perfecter than Art.  
These, were joined to those Arms,  
That were never made for harms:  
But, possess the sweetest graces,  
That may apt them for embraces.  
Like the Silver streams they be,  
Which from some high hill we see  
Clipping in a goodly Vale,  
That grows proud of such a thrall.  
Neither Alabaster Rocks,  
Pearl strowd-shores, nor Cotsall flocks,  
Nor the Mountains tipped with Snow,  
Nor the Milk-white Swans of Po,  
Can appear so fair to me,  
As her spotless shoulders be.  
They are like some work of state,  
Covered with the richest plate:  
And a presence have, that strike  
With devotions, Goddess-like.  
'twixt those shoulders (meanly spread)  
To support that Globe-like head,  
Riseth up her Neck; wherein,  
Beauty seemeth to begin  
To disclose itself, in more  
Tempting manner then before.  
How, therein she doth excel,  
(Though I would) I cannot tell:  
For, I naught on earth espy,  
That I may express it by.  
There, should Lovers as in duty,  
Hang rich Trophies up to Beauty.  
'tis proportioned to a height,  
That is even with delight.  
Yet, it is a great deal higher,  
Then to answer base desire.  
Where the Neck hath end, begins  
That smooth path, where loves close gins  
Are thick placed to enthral,  
Such, as that way straggle shall.  
There, a pleasing passage lies,  
far beyond the sight of eyes:  
And much more delight contains,  
Then the old Elysian plains.  
Whatsoever others say,  
There's alone the Milkie-way;  
That to beauty's walks doth go,  
Which, if others came to know;  
In possessing their delight,  
They should never reach the height,  
Of the pleasures which I share,  
Whilst that those debarred are.  
Yet (unspoken of) there rests,  
Her two twinlike lovely Breasts,  
Whose round-rising, pretty panting  
I would tell, but art is wanting.  
Words can never well declare,  
Her fair sweet perfections there:  
For, would measures give me leave,  
To express what I conceive,  
I do know I should go near,  
Half to ravish all that hear.  
And, but that I learn to season,  
What I apprehend with Reason,  
It had made my Passions weight,  
Sink me through my own conceit,  
There I find so large a measure,  
Of an unexpressed pleasure;  
That my heart, through strong surmise,  
In a pleasing fainting lies.  
He that there may rest to prove,  
Softer finds those beds of love,  
Then the Cotton ripest grown;  
Or fine pillows of such down,  
As in time of Molting, fans,  
From the breasts of silver Swans.  
Those two sisters are a pair  
Smooth alike, like soft, like fair;  
If together they be viewed.  
Yet if they a part be showed,  
That you touch, or see, seems smother;  
Softer, fairer, than the other.  
That the Colour may delight,  
So much read as makes the white,  
Purer seem, is shed among:  
And then, here, and there, along,  
Runs a Saphire-Mine, whose blue  
Shaddowd, makes so brave a show  
On those lily mounts, as tho,  
Beauties simples there did grow.  
In the vale, 'twixt either hill,  
Lies Desire in ambush still;  
And surpriseth every eye,  
Which doth that way dare to pry.  
There, is sure the twy-top Hill,  
Where the Poets, learn their skill.  
That's Parnassus where the Muses,  
chaste, and wise Minerva uses.  
Her two Cherrilets are those,  
Whence the pleasantst Nectar flows:  
And no fruits ere equalled these,  
Fetched from the Hesperideses.  
Once, as Cynthir's games she Chased,  
And for Aire, left half uncased,  
Her light summer-robe of green,  
(Beauties safe, but slender screen)  
Unawares, I partly spied,  
That fair Lily field unhid,  
Which you may her Belly name;  
Yet, nor she, nor I, to blame.  
For, it was but what mine eye,  
Might behold with modesty.  
'tis a fair and matchless Plain,  
Where unknown Delights remain,  
'tis the store-house wherein, Pleasure,  
Hides the richest of her treasure.  
Which, true Modesty (in ward)  
Keeps with a continual guard,  
Of such Virtues; as she's sure,  
No corruption can allure.  
There they say (for mind it well)  
I do this by hearsay, tell,  
Grows her Navel which doth seem,  
Like some jewel of esteem:  
With so wondrous cunning wrought,  
That an injury 'tis thought:  
Such a beauty, with the rest,  
(Should unknown) be unexprest.  
Some what else there is, that's hidden;  
Which to name I am forbidden:  
Neither have I ever pried,  
After that should be unspied.  
Never shall my Maiden-Muse,  
So herself, and me abuse,  
As to sing what I may fear,  
Will offend the Choicest ear.  
Though I know, if none be by,  
But true friends to Modesty;  
I might name each part at will,  
And yet no man's thought be ill.  
Yet, for fear loose hearers may,  
judge amiss, if more I say:  
I'll descend to shun all blame,  
To the Pillars of this Frame.  
Where, though I ne'er aimed so high,  
As her dainty youthful Thigh;  
(Whose rare softness, smothnes, fullness,  
Being known, would teach my dulness  
Such a strain, as might be fit,  
Some brave Tuscan Poets wit)  
Once a saucy bush I spied,  
Pluck her silken skirts aside;  
So discovered unto me,  
All those beauties to the knee.  
And, before the thorns entanglings,  
Had let go the Silver spangle,  
I perceived the curious knitting,  
Of those joints were well be fitting;  
Such a Noble piece of work:  
Mongst whose turnings, seemed to lurk,  
Much to entertain the sight,  
With new objects of delight.  
Then the Leg for shape as rare,  
Will admit of no compare.  
Straight it is; the Ankle lean,  
Full the Calf, but in the mean:  
And the slender Foot doth fit,  
So each way to suit with it,  
As she nothing less excels  
Therein, then in all things else.  
Yea from Head to Foot, her feature,  
Shows her an unblemished Creature:  
In whom love with reason, might,  
Finds so matchless a Delight.  
That more cannot be acquired,  
Nor, a greater bliss desired.  
Yet if you will rest an hour,  
Under yonder shady bower:  
I, anon my Muse will raise  
To a higher pitch of praise.  
But a while with Raspice-berries,  
Strawberries, ripe Pears, and Cherries,  
(Such as these our Groves do bear)  
We will cool our palates there.  
And those homely Cates among,  
Now and then, a Past'rall Song,  
Shall my Lad, here, sing, and play:  
Such, as you had yesterday.  

1  
A Lad whose faith will constant prove,  
And never know an end:  
Late by an over sight in love,  
Displeased his dearest friend.  
For which, incensed she did retake,  
The favours which he wore;  
And said, he never for her sake,  
Should wear, or see them more.   

The grief whereof, how near i●●ent,  
And how unkindly took;  
Was figured by the discontent,  
Appearing in his look.  
At first, he could not silence break,  
(So heavy sorrow lay)  
But when his sighs gave way to speak,  
Thus, sadly did he say.   

My only Dear; and with that speech,  
Not able to sustain,  
The floods of grief at sorrow's breach;  
He paused awhile again.  
At length (nigh fainting) did express,  
These words, with much ado;  
Oh dear! let not my love's excess.  
Me, and my love undo.   

She, little moved with his pain,  
His much distraction eyed;  
And changing love, into disdain,  
Thus (still unkind) replied:  
Forbear to urge one kindness more,  
Unless you long to see,  
The good respect you had before,  
At once all lost in me.   

With that, dismayed, his suit he ceased,  
And, down his head he hung:  
And, as his Reason's strength decreased,  
His passion grew more strong.  
But, seeing she did slight his moan  
(With Willow Garlands wreathed)  
He sat him down, and all alone,  
This sad complaint he breahbed.   

Oh Heavens! Quoth he, Why do we spend,  
Endeavours thus in vain;  
Since what the Fates do fore-intend,  
They never change again?  
Nor Faith, nor Love, nor true Desert,  
Nor all that man can do,  
Can win him place within her heart,  
That is not borne thereto.   

Why do I fond waste my youth,  
In secret sighs, and tears?  
Why to preserve a spotless truth,  
Taste I, so many cares?  
For, women that no worth respect,  
Do so ungentle prove;  
That some shall wi●ne by their neglect,  
What others lose with love.   

Those, that have set the best at naught,  
And no man could enjoy;  
At last, by some base Gull are caught,  
And gotten with a toy.  
Yea, they that spend an age's light,  
Their favours to obtain;  
For one unwilling over sight,  
May lose them all again.   

How glad, and fain, alas would I,  
For her have underwent,  
The greatest care, ere she should try,  
The smallest discontent?  
Yet she, that may my life command,  
And doth those passions know,  
Denieth me a poor demand,  
In height of all my wo●.   

Oh, if the Noblest of her time,  
And best beloved of me;  
Could for so poor, so slight a crime,  
So void of pity be.  
Sure, had it been some common one,  
Whose patience I had tried;  
No wonder I had been undone,  
Or unforgiven died.   

A thousand lives I would have laid,  
So well I once believed,  
She would have deigned to lend me aid,  
If she had seen me gree●'d.  
But now, I live to see the day,  
Where I presumed so;  
I neither dare for pity pray,  
Nor tell her of my woe.   

Yet, let not poor despised heart,  
Her worth ought questioned be;  
Hadst thou not failed in desert,  
She had not failed thee.  
But least perhaps, they flout thy moan,  
That should esteem thee dear;  
Go, make it by thyself alone,  
Where none may come to hear.   

Still keep thy forehead crowned with smiles,  
What passion ere thou try;  
That none may laugh at thee the while,  
Thou discontented lie.  
And let no wrong, by change distain  
A Love so truly fair:  
But rather, never hope again,  
And thou shalt ne'er despair.   

2  
Oretyred by cruel passions that oppress me,  
With heart nigh broken, Time no hope would give me  
Upon my bed I laid me down to rest me;  
And gentle sleep, I wo●ed to relieve me.  
But oh alas! I found that on the morrow  
My sleeping joys, brought forth my waking Sorrow.   

For lo, a dream I had so full of pleasure,  
That to possess, what to embrace I seemed,  
Could not effect my joy in higher measure,  
Then now it grieves me, that I have but dreamt.  
Oh let my dreams be sighs and tears hereafter:  
So, I that sleeping weep, may wake in laughter.   

fain would I tell, how much that shadow pleased me;  
But tongue and pen, want words, and art in telling.  
Yet, this I'll say, to show what horror seized me;  
(When I was robbed of bliss, so much excelling)  
Might all my dreams be suchj; oh let me never  
Awake again: but sleep, and dream for ever.   

For, when I waking saw myself deceived,  
And what an inward Hell it had procured,  
To find myself of all my hopes bereaved,  
It brought on passions not to be endured:  
And, knew I; next night had such dreams in keeping,  
I'd make my eyes, forswear, for ever sleeping.   

3  
YOu woody Hills, you Dales, you Groves,  
You Floods, and every Spring,  
You Creatures come, whom nothing moves,  
And hear a Shepherd sing.  
For, to Heroes, Nymphs, and Swains,  
I long have made ●y moan:  
Yet, what my mournful Verse contains,  
Is understood of none.   

In Song, APOLLO gave me skill;  
Their love, his Sisters deign.  
With those, that haunt Parnassus' hill,  
I friendship entertain.  
Yet, this is all in vain to me,  
So haplessely I fare,  
As those things which my glory be,  
My cause of ruin, are.   

For, Love hath kindled in my breast,  
His never quenched fire:  
And I, who often have expressed,  
What other men desire,  
(Because I could so dive into,  
The depth of others moan)  
Now, I my own affliction show,  
I heeded am, of none.   

Oft have the Nymphs of greatest worth,  
Made suit my Songs to hear.  
As oft (when I have sighed forth,  
Such notes as saddest were)  
Alas! said they, poor gentle heart,  
Who ere that Shepherd be:  
But, none of them suspects my smart,  
nor thinks, it meaneth me.   

When I have reached so high a strain,  
Of passion in my Song;  
That they, have seen the tears touraine  
And trill my cheek along:  
Instead of sigh, or weeping eye,  
To sympathise with me;  
Oh, were he once in love, they cry,  
How moving would he be?   

Oh pity me, you Powers above,  
And take my skill away:  
Or, let my hearers think I love,  
And fain not what I say.  
For, if I could disclose the smart,  
Which I unknown do bear;  
Each line would make them sighs impart,  
And every word, a tear.   

Had I a Mistress, some do think,  
She should revealed be;  
And I would favours wear, or drink  
Her Health upon my Knee.  
Alas poor fools! they aim awry,  
Their fancy flags too low:  
Could they my love's rare course espy,  
They would amazed grow.   

But, let nor Nymph nor Swain conceive,  
My tongue shall ever tell,  
Who of this rest, doth me bereave;  
Or where I am not well.  
But, if you sighing me espy,  
Where rarest features be;  
Mark, where I fix a weeping eye,  
And swear you, There is she.   

Yet, ere my eyes betray me shall,  
I'll swell, and burst with pain:  
And, for each drop they would let fall,  
My heart shall bleed me twain.  
For, since my soul more sorrow bears,  
Then common Lovers know;  
I scorn, my passions should like theirs,  
A common humour show.   

Ear, never heard of, heretofore,  
Of any Love like mine.  
Nor shall there be for evermore,  
Affection so divine.  
And, that to feign it, none may try,  
When I dissolved must be;  
The first I am, it lived by,  
And die it shall, with me.   
BOY, ha' done; for now my brain  
Is inspired afresh again,  
And new Raptures pressing are,  
To be sung in praise of her:  
Whose fair Picture lieth nigh,  
Quite unveiled to every eye.  
No small favour hath it been,  
That such Beauty might be seen:  
Therefore, ever may they rue it,  
Who with evil eyes shall view it.  
Yea, what ancient stories tell,  
Once to rude Actaeon fell,  
(When with evil thoughts, he stood  
Eyeing Cynthia in the Flood)  
May that fatal horned curse,  
Light upon them; or a worse.  
But (what ever others be)  
Lest some fault be found in me,  
If unperfect this remain;  
I will ouer-trymed again.  
Therefore, turn where we begun:  
And now all is overrun.  
Mark, if every thing expressed,  
Suit not so unto the rest,  
As if Nature would prefer,  
All perfections, unto her.  
Wherefore seems it strange to any,  
That they daily see so many,  
Who were else most perfect Creatures,  
In some one part, want true features?  
Since, from all the fairest that live,  
Nature took the best, to give  
Her pefection in each part.  
ay, alone, except her heart;  
For, among all womankind.  
Such as hers, is hard to find.  
If you truly note her Face,  
You shall find it hath a grace,  
Neither wanton, nor o'er serious;  
Nor too yielding, nor imperious:  
But, with such a feature blest,  
It is that, which pleaseth best:  
And delight's each several eye,  
That affects with modesty.  
Lowliness, hath in her look,  
Equal place with Greatness took.  
And, if Beauty (any where)  
Claims Prerogatives, 'tis there.  
For, at once, thus much 'twill do;  
Threat, command, persuade, and woo.  
In her Speech there is not found,  
Any harsh, unpleasing sound.  
But a well beseeming power;  
Neither higher, neither lower,  
Then will suit with her perfection,  
'tis the Loadstone of Affection.  
And, that man, whose judging eyes,  
Could well sound such mysteries,  
Would in love, make her, his choice;  
Though he did but hear her voice.  
For, such accents, breathe not, whence  
Beauty keeps Nonresidence.  
Never word of hers, I hear,  
But 'tis Music to mine ear:  
And, much mor● contentment brings,  
Then the sweetly-touched strings,  
Of the pleasing Lute, whose strains,  
Ravish hearers when it plains.  
Raised by her Discourse, I fly,  
In contented thoughts so high,  
That I pass the common measures,  
Of the dulled Senses pleasures:  
And, leave far below my flight,  
Vulgar pitches of delight.  
If She smile, and merry be;  
All about her, are as she.  
For, each looker on, taketh part  
Of the joy that's in her heart.  
If She grieve, or you but spy,  
Sadness peeping through her eye;  
Such a grace it seems to borrow,  
That you'll fall in love with sorrow:  
And abhor the name of Mirth,  
As the hatefulst thing on earth.  
Should I see her shed a tear,  
My poor eyes would melt, I fear.  
For, much more in Hers appears,  
Then in other women's tears:  
And her look, did never fain  
Sorrow, where there was no pain.  
Seldom hath she been espied  
So impatient as to chi●e:  
For, if any see her so,  
They'll in love with anger grow.  
Sigh, or speak, o● smile, or talk,  
Sing, or weep, or sit, or walk,  
Every thing that she doth do,  
Decent is, and lovely too.  
Each part that you shall behold,  
Hath within itself enrolled,  
What you could desire to see,  
(Or your heart conceive to be)  
Yet if from that part your eye,  
Moving shall another spy:  
There you see as much or more,  
Than you thought to praise before.  
While the eye surveys it, you  
Will imagine that her Brow  
Hath all beauty; when her Cheek,  
You behold, it is as like  
To be deemed fairest too.  
(So much there can Beauty do)  
Look but thence upon her eye,  
And you wonder by and by,  
How there may be any where,  
So much worthy praise as there.  
Yet, if you survey her Breast,  
Then as freely you'll protest,  
That in them perfection is;  
Though (I know) that one poor kiss,  
From her tempting Lips, would then,  
Make all that forsworn again.  
For, the self same moving grace,  
Is at once in every place.  
She, her Beauty never foils,  
With your ointments, waters, oils,  
Nor no loathsome Fucus settles,  
Mixed with jewish fasting spetles.  
Fair by Nature, being borne,  
She doth borrowed beauty seorne.  
Who so kisses her, needs fear  
No unwholesome varnish there.  
For, from thence he only sips,  
The pure Nectar, of her lips.  
And at once with these he closes,  
Melting Rubies, Cherries, Roses.  
Then, in her behaviour, she  
Striveth but herself to be.  
Keeping such a decent state,  
As (indeed) she seems to hate  
Precious leisure should be spent,  
In abused Compliment.  
Though she knows what other do,  
(And can all their Courtship toe)  
She, is not in so ill case,  
As to need their borrowed grace.  
Her Discourses sweetened are,  
With a kind of artless care,  
That expresseth greater Art,  
Then affected words imp●rt.  
So, her gestures (being none,  
But that freeness which alone,  
Suits the braveness of her mind)  
Make, her, of herself, to find,  
Postures more becoming far,  
Then the mere acquired, are.  
If you mark, when for her pleasure,  
She vouchsafes to foot a Measure,  
Though, with others skill, she place,  
there's a sweet delightful grace,  
In herself; which doth prefer,  
Art, beyond that Art, in her.  
Neither needs she beat her wit,  
To devose what dress fit.  
Her complexion, and her feature,  
So beholding are to Nature;  
If she in the Fashions go,  
All the reason she doth so,  
Is; because she would not err,  
In appearing singular.  
Doubtless, not for any thought,  
That 'twill perfect her, in aught.  
Many a dainty-seeming Dame,  
Is in native Beauties lame.  
Some, are graced by their Tires,  
As their Quoifs, their Hats, their Wires.  
One, a Ruff doth best become;  
Falling-Bands much altereth some.  
And their favours, oft, we see,  
Changed as their dress be.  
Which, her Beauty never fears:  
For, it graceth all she wears.  
If ye note her Tire to day,  
That, doth suit her best, you'll say.  
Mark, what she next morn doth wear;  
That, becomes her best, you'll swear.  
Yea, as oft as her you see;  
Such new graces, still there be:  
As, she ever seemeth graced,  
Most by that, she weareth last.  
Though, it be the same wore,  
But the very day before.  
When she takes her Tire about her,  
(Never half so rich without her)  
At the putting on of them,  
You may liken every gem,  
To those lamps, which at a play,  
Are set up to light the day.  
For, their lustre adds no more,  
To what Titan gave before;  
Neither doth their pretty gleaming,  
Hinder aught, his greater beamings.  
And yet (which is strange to me)  
When those costly deckings be,  
Laid away; there seems descrid,  
Beauties, which those Veils did hide.  
And, she looke●, as doth the Moon,  
Past some Cloud through which she shone:  
O●, some jewel Watch, whose Case,  
Set with Diamonds, seems to grace  
What it doth contain within 〈◊〉  
Till the curious work be seen,  
Then; 'tis found, that costly shrining;  
Did but hinder tothers shining.  
If you chance to be in place,  
When her Mantle she doth grace;  
You would presently protest,  
Irish dress were the best.  
If again she lay it down,  
While you view her in a gown:  
And how those her dainty limbs,  
That close-bodied garment trims.  
You would swear, and swear again:  
She appeared loveliest then.  
But, if she so truly fair,  
Should untie her shining hair,  
And at length, that treasure shed;  
Ioues endured Gammed,  
Neither Cytherea's joy,  
Nor the sweet self-loving Boy,  
(Who in beauty did surpass)  
Nor the fairest that ever was:  
Could, to take you prisoner bring,  
Looks so sweetly conquering.  
She, excels her, whom Apollo,  
Once with weeping eyes did follow.  
Or that Nymph, who shut in Towers,  
Was beguiled with golden showers;  
Yea, and She, whose love was wont,  
To swim over the Hellispont.  
For her sake (though in attire,  
Fittest to inflame desire)  
Seemed not half so fair to be,  
Nor so lovely, as is she.  
For, the man whose happy eye,  
Views her in full Majesty:  
Knows, she hath a power that moves,  
More than doth the Queen of Loves,  
When she useth all her power,  
To inflame her Paramour.  
And, sometime I do admire,  
All men burn not with desire.  
Nay, I muse her servants are not  
Pleading love; but oh they dare not.  
And, I therefore wonder, why  
They do not grow sick, and die.  
Sure they would do so, but that  
By the ordinance of Fate,  
There is some concealed thing,  
So, each gazer limiting;  
He can see no more of merit,  
Then beseems his worth, and spirit.  
For, in her a Grace there shines,  
That o'redaring thoughts confines;  
Making worthless men despair,  
To be loved of one so fair.  
Yea, the Destinies agree,  
Some good judgements blind should be,  
And not gain the power of knowing  
Those rare Beauties in her growing.  
Reason doth as much imply:  
For, if every judging eye,  
(Which beholdeth her) should there,  
Find what excellencies are:  
All, o'ercome by those perfections,  
Would be captive to affections.  
So, in happiness unblessed;  
She, for Lovers, should not rest.  
This, well heeding, think upon:  
And, if there be any one,  
Who alloweth not the worth,  
Which my Muse hath painted forth;  
Hold it no defect in her;  
But, that he's ordained to err.  
Or, if any female wight,  
Should detract from this I write,  
She, I yield, may show her wit,  
But disparage her no whit.  
For, on earth few women be,  
That from Envy's touch are free.  
And, who ever, Envy knew,  
Yield those honours that were due?  
Though sometime my Song I raise,  
To unused heights of praise,  
(And break forth as I shall please.  
Into strange Hyperboles)  
'tis to show, Conceit hath found,  
Worth, beyond expressions bound.  
Though, her breath I do compare,  
To the sweetest perfumes that are;  
Or, her Eyes that are so bright,  
To the morning's cheerful light.  
Yet, I do it not so much,  
To infer that she is such;  
As to show, that being blest,  
With what merits name of best,  
She appears more fair to me,  
Then all Creatures else that be.  
Her true beauty leaves behind,  
Apprehensions in my mind,  
Of more sweetness than all Art,  
Or inventions can impart.  
Thoughts, too deep to be expressed,  
And too strong to be suppressed.  
Which, oft raiseth my conceits,  
To so unbelieved heights;  
That (I fear) some shallow brain,  
Thinks my Muses do but fain.  
Sure, he wrongs them if he do:  
For, could I have reached to  
So like Strains, as these you see;  
Had there been no such as She?  
Is it possible that I,  
Who scarce heard of Poesy;  
Should a mere Idea raise,  
To as true a pitch of praise,  
As the learned Poets could,  
Now, or in the times of old;  
All those reall-beauties bring,  
Honoured by their Sonneting?  
(Having Arts, and favours to,  
More t' encourage what they do)  
No; if I had never seen,  
Such a beauty; I had been  
Piping in the Country shades,  
To the homely Dary-maides:  
For a Country Fiddlers fees;  
Clouted cream, & bread and cheese.  
I no skill in Numbers had,  
More than every Shepherd's Lad,  
Till She taught me, Strains that were,  
Pleasing to her gentle ear.  
Her fair splendour, and her worth,  
From obscureness, drew me forth.  
And, because I had no Muse,  
She herself deigned to infuse  
All the skill, by which I climb,  
To these praises in my Rhyme.  
Which, if she had pleased to add,  
To that Art sweet Drayton had,  
Or that happy Swain that shall  
Sing Britanias Pastoral;  
Or to theirs, whose Verse set forth  
Rosalind, and Stella's worth;  
They had doubled all their skill,  
Gained on Apollo's Hill:  
And, as much more set her forth,  
As I' me short of them in worth.  
They, had unto heights aspired,  
Might have justly been admired;  
And, in such brave Strains had moved,  
As of all had been approved.  
ay, must praise her as I may;  
Which I do mine own rude way:  
Sometime setting forth her glories,  
By unheard of Allegories.  
Think not, though, my Muse now sings,  
Mere absurd, or feigned things.  
If to gold I like her Hair,  
Or, to Stars, her Eyes so fair:  
Though I praise her Skin by snow,  
Or, by Pearls, her double-Row:  
'tis, that you might gather thence,  
Her unmatched excellence.  
Eyes, as fair (for eyes) hath she  
As stars fair, for stars may be.  
And, each part as fair doth show,  
In it kind, as white in Snow.  
'tis no grace to her at all,  
If her Hair I Sunbeams call:  
For, were there a power in Art,  
So to portrait every part,  
All men might those beauties see,  
As they do appear to me.  
I would scorn to make compare  
With the glorioust things that are.  
Nought I ere saw, fair enough,  
But the Hair, the hair to show.  
Yet, some think him overbold,  
That compares it but to Gold.  
He, from Reason seems to err,  
Who commending of his Dear,  
Gives her Lips the Rubies hue,  
Or by Pearls her Teeth doth show.  
But what Pearls, what Rubies can,  
Seem so lovely fair, to man,  
As her Lips whom he doth love,  
When in sweet discourse they move?  
Or her lovelier Teeth the while,  
She doth bless him with a smile.  
Stars indeed, fair Creatures be:  
Yet, amongst us, where is he,  
joys not more the while he lies,  
Sunning in his Mistress Eyes,  
Then in all the glimmering light,  
Of a starry winter's night?  
Him to flatter, most suppose,  
That prefers before the Rose  
Or the Lilies (while they grow)  
Or the flakes of newfallen suow;  
Her complextion whom he loveth:  
And yet, this my Muse approveth.  
For, in such a beauty, meets  
Unexpressed moving sweets;  
That, (the like unto them) no man,  
Ever saw but in a Woman.  
Look on Moon, on Stars, on Sun,  
All God's Creatures overrun.  
See, if all of them presents,  
To your mind, such sweet contents:  
Or, if you from them can take,  
Aught that may a beauty make,  
Shall one half so pleasing prove,  
As is Hers, whom you do love.  
For indeed, if there had been  
Other mortal Beauties seen,  
Objects for the love of man,  
Vain was their creation than.  
Yea, if this could well be granted,  
Adam might his Eve have wanted.  
But a woman is the Creature,  
Whose proportion with our nature  
Best agrees; and whose perfections,  
Sympathise with our affections:  
And not only finds our Senses,  
Pleasure in their excellencies.  
But our Reason also knows,  
Sweetness in them, that outgoes  
Humane wit to comprehend,  
Much more, truly, to commend.  
Note, the Beauty of any Eye;  
And, if ought you praise it by,  
Leave such passion in your mind,  
Let my Reason's eye be blind.  
Mark, if ever red or white,  
Any where, gave such delight,  
As when they have taken place,  
In a worthy woman's face.  
He that so much hath not noted,  
Will not: or is grown besotted.  
Such as Lovers are, conceive,  
What impressions Beauty leave;  
And those Hearts, that fire have took,  
By a love-enflaming look:  
Those, believe, what here I say;  
And, suppose not that I stray,  
In a word, by setting forth  
Any praise beyond true worth.  
And yet, wherefore should I care,  
What another's Censures are,  
Since I know her to be such,  
As no praise can be too much?  
All that see her, will agree,  
In the self same mind with me;  
If their wit be worth the having,  
Or their judgement merit craving.  
And the man that ken her not,  
Speaks, at best, he knows not what:  
So, his Envy, or good will.  
Neither doth her good, nor ill.  
Then, Fools cavils I disdain,  
And, call back my Muse again,  
To decipher out the rest.  
For, I have too long digressed.  
This is She, in whom there meets,  
All variety of sweets.  
An Epitome, of all,  
That on earth we Fair may call.  
Nay, yet more I dare aver:  
He that is possessed of her,  
Shall at once all pleasure find,  
That is reaped from Womankind.  
Oh, what man would further range,  
That in one might find such change?  
What dull eye such worth can see,  
And not sworn a Lover be?  
Or, from whence was he, could prove,  
Such a Monster in his love;  
As, in thought, to use amiss,  
Such unequalled worth as this?  
Pity 'twere that such a Creature,  
Phenix-like, for matchless feature,  
Should so suffer; or be blamed,  
With what now the Times are shamed.  
Beauty (unto me divine)  
Makes my honest thoughts incline,  
Unto better things, then that,  
Which the Vulgar aimeth at.  
And, I vow, I grieve to see,  
Any Fair, and false to be:  
Or, when I sweet pleasures find,  
Matched with a defiled mind.  
But (above all others) Her,  
So much doth my soul prefer;  
That to Him whose ill desire,  
Should so nurse a lawless Fire,  
As to tempt, to that, which might  
Dim her sacred Virtue's light;  
I could wish that he might die  
Ere he did it; though 't were I.  
For, if She should hap to stray,  
All this Beauty would away:  
And not her alone undo,  
But kill him, that praised her to.  
But, I know her Maker will  
Keep her undistained still:  
That ensuing Ages may  
Pattern out, by her the way  
To all goodness. And if Fate  
That appoints all things a Date  
Hear me would; I'd wish that She  
Might for aye preserved be.  
And that neither wasting Cares,  
Neither all-consuming Years,  
Might, from what she is, estrange her,  
Or in mind, or body change her.  
For, oh why should envious Time,  
Perpetrate so vile a Crime,  
As to waste, or wrong, or stain,  
What shall ne'er be matched again?  
Much I Hope, it shall not be:  
For, if Love deceive not me,  
To that height of Fair she grows,  
Age, or Sickness (Beauties foes)  
Cannot so much wrong it there,  
But enough there will appear,  
Ever worthy to be loved:  
And, that heart shall more be moved,  
(Where there is a judging eye)  
With those prints it doth espy,  
Of her beauty wronged by Time,  
Then by others, in their prime.  
One advantage she hath more,  
That adds grace to all before.  
It is this; her Beauty's fame,  
Hath not done her honour shame.  
For, where Beauty we do find,  
Envy still is so unkind,  
That, although their Virtues are  
Such, as pass their Beavies far;  
Yet on Slanders rocks they be  
Shipwrackt oftentimes, we see:  
And are subject to the wrongs,  
Of a thousand spiteful tongues,  
When the greatest fault they had,  
Was, that some would make them bad;  
And not finding them for action,  
Sought for vengeance, by detraction.  
But her beauty sure no tongue,  
Is so villainous to wrong.  
Never did the jealoust ear,  
Any muttering rumour hear,  
That might cause the least suspects,  
Of indifferent defects.  
And (which somewhat stranger is)  
They, whose slanders few can miss,  
(Though set on by evil will,  
And habituated ill)  
Nothing can of her invent,  
Whence to frame disparagement.  
Which, if we respect the Crimes,  
Of these loose injurious times;  
Doth not only truly prove,  
Great discretion in her love:  
And, that she hath lived upright,  
In each jealous tongue's despite.  
But, it must be understood,  
That her private thoughts are good.  
Yea, 'tis an apparent sign,  
That her beauty is Divine:  
And, that Angels have a care,  
men's polluting tongues should spare  
To defile, what God hath given,  
To be dear to Earth, and Heaven.  
Tell me you that hear me now;  
Is there any one of you,  
Wanteth feeling of affection?  
Or that loves not such perfection?  
Can there be so dull an ear,  
As of so much worth to hear;  
And not seriously incline,  
To this Saintlike friend of mine?  
If there be; the fault doth lie,  
In my artless Poesy.  
For, If I could reach the Strain,  
Which me thinks I might obtain;  
Or, but make my Measures fly,  
Equal with my fantasy;  
I would not permit an ear,  
To attend unravished here;  
If, but so much fence it knew,  
As the blocks, that Orphe●s drew.  
Think on this description, well,  
And, your noblest Ladies tell;  
Which of you (that worth can see)  
This my Mistress would not be?  
You brave English, who have run,  
From the rising of the Sun:  
Till in travelling you found,  
Where he doth conclude his Round.  
You, that have the beauties seen,  
Which in farthest Lands have been;  
And sur●eid the fair resorts,  
Of the French and Spanish Courts:  
(With the best that Fame renowns,  
In the rich Trans-Alpine Towns)  
Do not with our brainless Fry,  
(That admire each novelty)  
Wrong your Country's fame in aught.  
But, here freely speak your thought;  
And I durst presume you'll swear,  
she's not matched any where.  
Gallants, you that would so fain,  
Nymphs and Ladies loves obtain.  
You, that strive to serve and please,  
Fairest Queens and Empresses.  
Tell me this, and tell me right;  
If you would not (so you might)  
Leave them all despised to prove,  
What contents are in her love?  
Could your Fathers ever tell,  
Of a Nymph did more excel?  
Or hath any story told,  
Of the like, in times of old?  
Dido was not such a one.  
Nor the Troyans' Paragon.  
Though they so much favour found,  
As to have their honours crowned,  
By the best of Poet's penns,  
Ever known before, or since.  
For, had Dido been so fair,  
Old Anchises noble heir;  
Ioues command had disobaid:  
And with her in Carthage stayed:  
Where, he would have quite forswore,  
Seeing the Lavinian Shore.  
Or, had Leda's Daughter been,  
(When she was the Spartan Queen)  
Equal with this lovely-one,  
Menelaus had never gone,  
From her sight so far away,  
As to leave her for a pray;  
And his room, to be possessed,  
By her wanton Phrygian guest.  
But, lest yet among you, some,  
Think she may behind these, come:  
Stay a little more, and here me:  
In another strain I'll rear me.  
I'll unmasque a beauty, now,  
Which to kiss, the Gods may bow.  
And so feelingly did move,  
That your souls shall fall in love.  
I have yet, the best behind;  
Her most fair, unequalled, Mind.  
This, that I have here expressed,  
Is but that, which veils the rest.  
An incomparable shrine,  
Of a Beauty more divine.  
Whereof, ere I farther speak,  
Off again, my Song I'll break.  
And, if you among the Roses,  
(Which, yo● quickset hedge encloses)  
Will with plucking flowers, beguile  
Tedious-seeming Time awhile;  
Till I step to yonder Green,  
(Whence the sheep so plain are seen)  
I, willbe returned, ere  
You an hour have stayed there.  
And, excuse me now, I pray,  
Though I rudely go away.  
For, Affaires I have to do:  
Which, unless I look into;  
I may sing out Summer here,  
Like the idle Grasshopper,  
And at Winter, hide my head,  
Or else fast, till I am dead.  
Yet if Rustic pastoral Measures,  
Can aught add unto your pleasures;  
I will leave you some of those,  
Which, it pleased me to compose,  
When despairing fits were over;  
And I made a happy Lover,  
Exercisd my loving passion,  
In an other kind of fashion,  
Then to utter, I devised,  
When I feared to be despised.  
Those; shall lie in gage for me,  
Till I back returned be.  
And, in writing; here, you have them:  
Either Sing, or Read, or leave them.  


Sonnet 1.  

ADmire not Shepherd's Boy,  
Why I my Pipe forbear;  
My sorrows, and my joy,  
Beyond expression are.  
Though others may,  
In Songs display  
Their passions, when they woo:  
Yet, mine do fly,  
A pitch too high,  
For words to reach unto.   

If such weak thoughts as those,  
With others fancies move;  
Or, if my breast did close,  
But common Strains of Love:  
Or passions store,  
Learnt me no more,  
To feel then others do:  
I'd paint my cares,  
As black as theirs,  
And teach my Lynes to woo.   

But oh! thrice happy ye,  
Whose mean conceit is dull;  
You from those thoughts are free,  
That stuff my breast so full:  
My love's excess,  
Le's to express,  
What Songs are used to:  
And my delights,  
Take such high flights,  
My joys will me undo.   

I have a Love that's fair,  
Rich, Wise, and Nobly borne;  
she's true Perfections heir,  
Holds nought but Vice in scorn.  
A heart to find,  
More chaste, more kind,  
Our Plains afford no more.  
Of her degree,  
No blab I'll be,  
For doubt, some Prince should woo.   

And yet I do not fear,  
(Though she my meanness knows)  
The Willow Branch to wear,  
No, nor the yellow hose.  
For, if great jove,  
Should sue for love,  
She would not me forgo  
Resort I may,  
By night or day.  
Which braver, dare not do.   

You Gallants, borne to pelf,  
To Lands, to Titles store;  
I'm borne but to my Self,  
Nor do I care for more.  
Add to your earth,  
Wealth, Honours, Birth,  
And all you can thereto;  
You cannot prove,  
That height of Love,  
Which, I in meanness do.   

Great Men have helps to gain,  
Those favours they implore;  
Which, though I win with pain,  
I find my joys the more.  
Each Clown may rise,  
And climb the Skies,  
When he hath found a Staire:  
But joy to him,  
That dares to climb,  
And hath no help, but air.   

Some say, that Love reputes,  
Where Fortunes disagree;  
I know the highest contents,  
From low beginnings be.  
My love's unfeigned,  
To her that deigned,  
From Greatness, stoop thereto.  
She loves, cause I,  
So mean, dar'dtrie,  
Her better worth to woo.   

And yet although much joy,  
My Fortune seems to bless;  
'tis mixed with more annoy,  
Then I shall ere express:  
For, with much pain  
Did I obtain,  
The gem I'll ne'er forgo:  
Which, yet I dare  
Nor show, nor wear;  
And that breeds all my woe.   

But fie, my foolish tongue,  
How loosely now it goes!  
First, let my Knell be rung,  
Ere I do more disclose.  
Mounts thoughts on high;  
Cease words, for why:  
My meaning to divine:  
To those I leave,  
That can conceive,  
So brave a Love as mine.   

And now, no more I'll sing,  
Among my fellow Swains:  
Nor Groves, nor Hills shall ring,  
With Echoes of my plains.  
My Measures be,  
Confused (you see)  
And will not suit thereto:  
Cause, I have more,  
Brave thoughts in flore,  
Then words can reach unto.    

Sonnet. 2.  

HEnce away, you Sirens, leave me,  
And unclasp your wanton Arms;  
Sugared words shall ne'er deceive me,  
(Though thou prove a thousand Charms)  
Fie, fie, forbear;  
No common snare,  
Could ever my affection chain:  
Your painted baits,  
And poor deceits,  
Are all bestowed on me, in vain.   

I'm no slaue, to such as you be;  
Neither shall a snowy Breast,  
Wanton Eye, or Lip of Ruby,  
Ever rob me, of my rest.  
Go, go, display,  
Your Beauty's ray,  
To some ore-soone enamoured Swain.  
Those common wiles,  
Of sighs and smiles;  
Are all bestowed on me, in vain.   

I have elsewhere, vowed a duty;  
Turn away thy tempting eyes.  
Show not me, a naked Beauty,  
Those Impostures, I despise.  
My Spirit loathes,  
Where gaudy clothes,  
And feigned Oaths, may love obtain.  
I love Her so,  
Whose look, swears No;  
That, all your labours will be vain.   

Can he prise the tainted Posies,  
Which on every breast are worn;  
That may pluck the spotless Roses,  
From their never-touched Thorn?  
I can go rest,  
On her sweet Breast;  
That is the pride of Cynthia's train.  
Then hold your tongues,  
Your Mermaid Songs,  
Are all bestowed on me in vain.   

he's a fool, that basely dallies,  
Where each Peasant mates with him.  
Shall I haunt the thronged Valleys,  
Whilst there's noble Hills to climb?  
No, no; though Clowns  
Are scared with frowns,  
I know the best can but disdain:  
And those I'll prove;  
So shall your Love  
Be all bestowed, on me in vain.   

Yet, I would not deign embraces,  
With the greatest-fairest She,  
If another shared those graces,  
Which had been bestowed on Me.  
I gave that One,  
My Love, where none,  
Shall come to rob me of my gain.  
Your fickle Hearts  
Makes Tears, and Arts,  
And all, bestowed on me in vain.   

I do scorn, to vow a Duty,  
Where each lustful Lad may woo.  
Give me Her, whose Sunlike Beauty,  
Buzzards dare not soar unto.  
She, she it is,  
Affords that Bliss,  
For which, I would refuse no pain.  
But such as you,  
Fond fools adieu;  
You seek to captive me in vain.   

Proud she seemed in the beginning,  
And disdained my looking on:  
But, that coy one in the winning,  
Proves a true one being won.  
What ere betide,  
she'll ne'er divide,  
The favour she to me shall deign.  
But, your fond love,  
Will fickle prove:  
And all that trust in you, are vain.   

Therefore know, when I enjoy One,  
(And for love employ my breath)  
She I Court shall be a Coy one,  
Though I win her with my death.  
A favour there,  
Few aim at dare.  
And if perhaps, some Lover plain,  
She is not won,  
Nor I undone,  
By placing of my love in vain.   

Leave me then, you Sirens leave me;  
Seek no more to work my harms:  
Crafty wiles cannot deceive me;  
Who am proof against your Charms.  
You labour may,  
To lead astray,  
The heart, that constant shall remain:  
And I the while,  
Will sit and smile,  
To see you spend your time in vain.    

Sonnet 3.  

WHen Philomela with her strains,  
The Spring had welcomed in;  
And Flora, to bestrow the Plains,  
With Daisies did begin:  
My Love, and I (on whom suspicious eyes,  
Had set a thousand spies)  
To cozen Argos strove;  
And seen of none,  
We got alone,  
Into a shady Gr●●e.   

On every Bush, the Eglantine,  
with leaves perfumed hung.  
The Primrose, made the ●edge-rowes fine,  
The woods, of Music rung.  
The Earth, the Air, & all things did conspire  
To raise contentment higher.  
That, had I come to woo:  
Nor means of grace,  
Nor time, nor place;  
Were wanting thereunto.   

With hand in hand, alone we walked,  
And oft each other ●y●e:  
Of Love, and passions past, we 〈◊〉,  
Which our poor hearts had tried.  
Our souls, infused into each other were:  
And, what may be her care,  
Did my more sorrow breed.  
One mind we bore;  
One Faith we swore:  
And both in one agreed.   

Her dainty Palm, I gently pressed,  
And with her Lips I played.  
My Cheek, upon her panting Breast,  
And on her Neck I laid.  
And yet, we had no sense of wanton lust:  
Nor, did we then mistrust,  
The poison in the sweet.  
Our Bodies wrought  
So close, we thought,  
Because our Souls should meet.   

With pleasant toil, we breathless grew;  
And kissed in warmer blood:  
Upon her Lips, the 〈◊〉,  
Like drops on Roses stood;  
And on those 〈…〉;  
Whose sweets; were such to me,  
Them could I not 〈◊〉  
No, not to feast,  
On Venus' 〈◊〉;  
Whence Streams of sweetness flow.   

But, kissing and embracing, we  
So long together lay;  
Her touches all inflamed me,  
And I began to stray.  
My hands, presumed so far, they were too bold.  
My tongue, unwisely told  
How much my heart was changed.  
And Virtue quite,  
Was put to flight,  
Or, for the time estranged.   

Oh! what are we, if in our strength,  
We over boldly trust?  
The strongest forts, will yield at length,  
And so our Virtues must.  
In Me, no force of Reason had prevailed;  
If she had also failed.  
But ere I further strayed,  
She sighing kissed,  
My naked wrist;  
And thus, in tears she said.   

Sweet heart (quoth she) if in thy breast,  
Those Virtues real be,  
Which hitherto thou hast professed,  
And I believed in thee:  
Thyself, and Me, oh seek not to abuse.  
Whilst Thee I thus refuse,  
In hotter flames I fry:  
Yet, let us not,  
Our true love spot,  
Oh, rather let me die.   

For, if thy heart should fall from good,  
What would become of mine?  
As strong a passion, stirs my blood,  
As can distemper thine.  
Yet, in my breast this rage I smother would,  
Though it consume me should;  
And, my desires contain:  
For, where we see,  
Such breaches be,  
They seldom stop again.   

Are we the two, that have so long,  
Each others loves embraced?  
And never did Affection wrong,  
Nor think a thought unchaste?  
And shall, oh, shall we now, our matchless jay,  
For one poor touch destroy?  
And all content forgo?  
Oh no, my Dear,  
Sweet heart, forbear;  
I will not lose thee so.   

For, should we do a deed so base,  
(As it can never be)  
I could no more have seen thy face,  
Nor wouldst thou look on me.  
I should of all our passions gr●w ashamed;  
And blush when thou art named,  
Yea (though thou constant wert)  
I being nought,  
A jealous thought,  
Would still torment my heart.   

What goodly thing do we obtain,  
If I consent to thee?  
Rare joys we lose, and what we gain,  
But common pleasures be:  
Yea, those (some say) who are to lust inclined,  
Drive Love out of the mind;  
And so much Reason miss:  
That they admire,  
What kind of fire,  
A chaste affection is.   

No vulgar bliss, I aimed at,  
When first I heard thee woo:  
I'll never prise a man for that,  
Which every Groom can do.  
If that be love; the basest men that be,  
Do love as well as we.  
Who, if we bear us well,  
Do pass them then,  
As Angels, men,  
In glory do excel.   

Whilst thus she spoke, a cruel Band  
Of Passions seized my Soul:  
And, what one seemed to command,  
Another did control.  
'twixt Good, and Ill, I did divided lie,  
But, as I raised mine eye,  
In her me thought I saw,  
Those virtues shine,  
Whose rays divine,  
First gave Desire, a Law.   

With that, I felt the blush of shame,  
Into my cheek return,  
And Love, did with a chaster flame,  
Within my Bosom burn.  
My Soul, her light of Reason had renewed;  
And by those Beams I viewed,  
How slily Lust ensnares:  
And all the fires,  
Of ill Desires,  
I quenched with my Tears.   

Go Wantoness now, and flout at this,  
My coldness, if you list;  
Vain fools, you never knew the bliss,  
That doth in Love consist.  
You sigh, and weep, and labour to enjoy;  
A Shade, a Dream, a Toy.  
Poor Folly you pursue,  
And are unblessed,  
Since every beast,  
In pleasure equals you.   

You never took so rich content,  
In all your wanton play,  
As this to me hath pleasure lent,,  
That chaste she went away.  
For as some sins, which me committed have;  
Sharp stings behind them leeve.  
Whereby we vexed are:  
So, ill suppressed,  
Begetteth rest,  
And peace, without compare.   

But least this Conquest slight you make,  
Which on myself I won;  
Twelve labours, I will undertake,  
With Ioues victorious Son,  
Ere I, will such another brunt endure.  
For, had Diana pure,  
Thus tempted been to sin;  
That Queen of Night,  
(With her chaste light,)  
Had scarce, a Maiden been.     
OH! how honoured are my Songs,  
Graced by your melodious tongues?  
And how pleasing do they seem,  
Now your voices Carol them?  
Were not, yet, that task to do,  
Which my word enjoins me to,  
I should beg of you, to hear,  
What your own inventions were.  
But, (before I aught will crave)  
What I promised, you shall have.  
And, as I on mortal Creatures,  
Called, to view her bodies features;  
Showing how, to make the Senses,  
Apprehend her excellences.  
Now; I speak of no worse subject,  
Then a Souls, and Reason's object:  
(And relate a Beauty's glories,  
Fitting heavenly Auditories)  
Therefore, whilst I sit and sing,  
Hem me Angels, in a Ring.  
Come ye Spirits, which have eyes,  
That can gaze on Deities:  
And unclogged, with brutish senses,  
Comprehend such excellences.  
Or, if any mortal ear,  
Would be granted leave to hear,  
(And find profit with delight,  
In what now, I shall indite)  
Let him first be sure, to season  
A prepared hart with reason:  
And, with judgement, drawing nigh,  
Lay all fond affections by.  
So, through all her vailing, He  
Shall the Soul of beauty see.  
But, avoid you earth-bred Wights,  
Cloyed with sensual appetites.  
On bafe objects glut your eyes,  
Till your starveling pleasure dies.  
Feed your ears, with such delights,  
As may match you gross conceits;  
For, within your muddy brain,  
These, you never can contain.  
Think not, you, who by the sense,  
Only judge of excellence;  
(Or do all contentment place,  
In the beauty of a face)  
That these higher thoughts of our,  
Soare so base a pitch as your.  
I can give, as well as you,  
Outward Beauties all their due:  
I can most contentments see,  
That in love, or women be.  
Though I dote not on the features,  
Of our daintiest female creatures;  
(Nor, was ere so void of shames,  
As to play their lawless games)  
I more prise a snowy Hand,  
Then the gold on Tagus' strand:  
And a dainty Lip before,  
All the greatest monarchs' store.  
Yea, from these I reap as true,  
And as large contents as you.  
Yet, to them I am not tie.  
I have rarer sweets espied;  
(Wider prospects of true pleasure)  
Than your kerbed thoughts can measure.  
In her Soul, my Soul descries,  
Objects, that may feed her eyes.  
And the beauty of her mind,  
Shows my Reason where to find,  
All my former pleasure doubled.  
Neither with such passion troubled;  
As wherewith it oft was crossed:  
Nor so easy to be lost.  
ay, that ravished lay, well-nigh,  
By the lustre of her eye:  
And, had almost sworn affection,  
To the fore expressed perfection;  
As if nothing had been higher,  
Whereunto I might aspire.  
Now, have found, by seeking nearer,  
Inward worth; that shining clearer;  
(By a sweet and secret moving)  
Draws me to a dearer loving.  
And, whilst I that love conceive,  
Such impressions it doth leave,  
In the Intellective part;  
As, defaceth from my hart,  
Every thought of those delights,  
Which allure base appetits.  
And, my mind so much imploys,  
In contemplating, those joys,  
Which, a purer sight, doth find,  
In the beauty of her Mind:  
That, I so thereon am set,  
As (me thinks) I could forget,  
All her sweetest outward graces:  
Though I lay in her embraces.  
But, some thinking with a smile,  
What, they would have done the while:  
Now suppose my words are such,  
As exceed my power too much.  
For, all those, our Wantoness hold,  
Void of Vigour, dull, and cold:  
Or (at best) but fools, whose flame,  
Makes not way unto their shame.  
Though at length with grief they see  
They the fools do prove to be.  
These, the body so much minded,  
That their Reason over-blinded,  
By the pleasures of the Sense,  
Hides from them that excellence;  
And that sweetness, whose true worth,  
I am here to blazon forth.  
'tis not; 'tis not, those rare graces,  
That do lurk in women's faces.  
'tis not, a displayed perfection,  
Youthful eyes, nor clear complexion;  
Nor a skin, smooth-satten like,  
Nor a dainty Rosy cheek,  
That to wantonness can move,  
Such as virtuously do love.  
Beauty, rather gently draws  
Wild Desires, to Reason's Laws;  
And oft frights men from that sin,  
They had else transgressed in:  
Through a sweet amazement, stroke,  
From an overruling look.  
Beauty, never tempteth men  
To lasciviousness; but when  
Careless Idleness hath brought  
Wicked longings into thought.  
Nor doth youth, or heat of blood,  
Make men prove what is not good.  
Nor the strength, of which they vaunt.  
'tis the strength, and power they want,  
And the baseness of the Mind,  
Makes their bruit desires inclined,  
To pursue those vain delights,  
Which affect their Appetites.  
And so blinded do they grow,  
(Who are overtaken so)  
As their dulness cannot see,  
Nor believe that better be.  
Some, have blood as hot as their,  
Whose affections losest are;  
Bodies that require no art,  
To supply weak Nature's part.  
Youth they have; and, sure, might to,  
Boast of what, some (shameless do)  
Yet, their Minds that aim more high,  
(Than those base pleasures lie)  
Taught by Virtue can suppress,  
All attempts of wantonness.  
And such powerful motives frame,  
To extinguish Passions flame;  
That (by Reasons good direction)  
qualifying loose affection;  
they'll in midst of Beauty's fires,  
Walk unscorched of ill Desires.  
Yet, no such, as stupid shame,  
Keeps from actions worthy blame.  
But, in all so truly Man,  
That their apprehensions can,  
Prise the bodies utmost worth:  
And, find many pleasures forth,  
In those Beauties; more than You,  
That abuse them, ever knew.  
But, perhaps her outward grace,  
Here described, hath ta'en such place,  
In some ore-enamourd breast,  
And so much his hart possessed,  
As He thinks it passeth telling,  
How she may be more excelling:  
Or what worth, I can prefer,  
To be more admired in Her.  
Therefore, now I will be brief,  
To prevent that misbelief.  
And, if there be present here,  
Any one, whose nicer ear:  
Tasks my Measures, as offending,  
In too seriously commending  
What affects the Sense; or may,  
Injure Virtue any way.  
Let them know; 'tis understood,  
That if they were truly good,  
It could never breed offence,  
That I showed the excellence,  
With the power of God and Nature,  
In the beauty of his Creature.  
They from thence would rather raise,  
Cause, to meditate his praise:  
And thus think; How fair must He,  
That hath made this Fair-one be!  
That; was my proposed End.  
And, to make them more attend  
Unto this; so much excelling,  
As it passeth means of telling.  
But at worst; if any Strain,  
Makes your Memories retain,  
Sparks of such a baneful fire,  
As may kindle ill desire:  
This, that follows after, shall  
Not alone extinguish all;  
But, e'en make you blush with shame,  
That your thoughts were so to blame.  
Yet, I know when I have done,  
(In respect of that bright Sun,  
Whose inestimable light  
I would blazon to your sight)  
These, ensuing flashes, are,  
As to Cynthia's beams a Star;  
Or, a petty Comets ray,  
To the glorious Eye of Day.  
For, what power of words or Art,  
Can her worth at full impart?  
Or, what is there, may be found,  
Placed within the Senses bound;  
That can paint those sweets to me,  
Which the Eyes of Love do see?  
Or the Beauties of that Mind,  
Which her body hath enshrined.  
Can I think, the Guide of Heaven,  
Hath so bountifully given,  
Outward features, cause he meant,  
To have made less excellent,  
Her divine part? Or suppose,  
Beauty, Goodness doth oppose;  
Like those fools, who do despair,  
To find any Good and Fair?  
Rather; There I seek a mind,  
Most excelling, where I find  
God hath to the body lent,  
Most-beseeming Ornament.  
But, though he that did inspire  
First, the true Promethean fire,  
In each several soul did place  
Equal Excellence and Grace,  
As some think; yet have not they  
Equal Beauties every way.  
For, they more or less appear,  
As the outward Organs are:  
Following much the temperature,  
Of the Body, gross or pure.  
And I do believe it true,  
That, as we the Body view:  
Nearer to perfection grow;  
So, the Soul herself doth show:  
Others more, and more excelling,  
In her power; as in her dwelling.  
For, that pureness giveth way,  
Better to disclose each Ray,  
To the Dull conceit of man,  
Then a grosser substance can.  
Thus, through spotless Crystal, we  
May the Day's full glory see;  
When, if clearest Sunbeams pass,  
Through a foul polluted glass:  
So discollerd, they'll appear;  
As those Stains they shone through, were.  
Let no Critic cavil then,  
If I dare affirm again;  
That her Minds perfections are,  
Fairer than her body's far;  
And, I need not prove it by,  
Axioms of Philosophy,  
Since no proof can better be,  
Then their rare effect in me.  
For, while other men complaining,  
Tell their Mistresses disdaining:  
Free from care, I write a story,  
Only of her worth and glory.  
While most Lovers pining sit,  
(Robbed of liberty and wit)  
Vassaling themselves with shame,  
To some proud imperious Dame:  
Or, in Songs their Fate bewailing,  
Show the world their faithless failing.  
ay, enwreathed with boughs of Myrtle,  
Fare like the beloved Turtle.  
Yea while most, are most untoward,  
Peevish, vain, inconstant, froward.  
While their best contentments bring,  
Nought but after-sorrowing.  
She, those childish humours slighting,  
Hath conditions so delighting,  
And doth so my bliss endeavour,  
As my joy increaseth ever.  
By her actions I can see,  
That her Passions so agree,  
Unto Reason; as they err,  
Seldom, to distemper her.  
Lone she can (and doth) but so,  
As she will not overthrow,  
loves content by any folly,  
Or, by deeds that are unholy.  
Dotingly, she ne'er affects;  
Neither willingly neglects  
Honest love: But means doth find,  
With discretion to be kind.  
'tis nor thundering Phrase, nor Oaths,  
Honours, wealth, nor painted Clothes,  
That can her good liking gain,  
If no other worth remain.  
Never took her heart, delight  
In your Court-Hermaphrodite,  
Or such frothy Gallants, as  
For the Time's Heroes pass.  
Such; who (still in love) do all  
Fair, and Sweet, and Lady call.  
And where e'er they hap to stray,  
Either prate the rest away;  
Or, of all discourse to seek,  
Shuffle in at Cent, or Gleek.  
Goodness more delights her, than  
All their Mask of Folly can.  
Fond, she hateth to appear;  
Though she hold her friend as dear,  
As her part of life unspent:  
Or, the best of her content.  
If the heat of youthful fires,  
Warm her blood with those desires,  
Which are by the course of Nature,  
Stirred in every perfect Creature:  
As those Passions kindle, so  
Doth Heaven's grace, and Reason grow  
Abler, to suppress in her  
Those rebellions; and they stir,  
Never more affection, than  
One good thought allays again.  
I could say, so chaste is she,  
As the new-blowne Roses be.  
Or, the drifts of Snow, that none  
Ever touched, or looked upon.  
But, that were not worth a Fly,  
Seeing so much Chastity,  
Old Pygmalion Picture had:  
Yea, those Eunuches borne or made,  
ne'er to know Desire; might say,  
She deserved no more than they.  
Whereas, whilst their worth proceeds  
From such wants, as they must needs,  
Be unmoved (cause Nature framed  
No affections to be tamed)  
Through her dainty Limbs, are spread,  
Vigour, heat, and freely shed,  
Life blood into every vain;  
Till they fill, and swell again:  
And no doubt they strive to force,  
Way, in some forbidden Course.  
Which, by Grace she still resists;  
And so Courbs within their lists,  
Those Desires: that she is chaster,  
Then if she had none to master.  
Malice, never lets she in:  
Neither hates she ought, but sin.  
Envy, if she could admit,  
there's no means to nourish it:  
For, her gentle heart is pleased,  
When she knows another's eased.  
And there's none, who ever got  
That perfection, she hath not.  
So, that no cause is there, why  
She should any one envy.  
Mildly angry she'll appear,  
That the base Rout may fear;  
Through presumption to misdo.  
Yet, she often feigns that to.  
But let wrong be whatsoever,  
She gives way to Choler, never.  
If she e'er of Vengeante thought,  
'twas nor life, nor blood was sought;  
But (at most) some prayer to move,  
justice for abused Love:  
Or, that Fate would pay again,  
Love's neglectors with disdain.  
If she ever craved of Fate,  
To obtain a higher State;  
(Or ambitiously were given)  
Sure, 'twas but to climb to heaven.  
Pride, is from her heart as far,  
As the Poles in distance are.  
For, her worth, nor all this praise,  
Can her humble spirit raise,  
Less to prise me, than before;  
Or herself, to value more.  
Were she Vain; she might allege,  
'twere her Sex's privilege.  
But, she's such; as (doubtless) no man  
Knows less folly, in a woman.  
To prevent a being Idle,  
Sometime, with her curious Needle,  
(Though it be her meanest glory)  
She so limnes an Antique Story,  
As Minerva (would she take it)  
Might her richest Sample make it.  
Other while, again, she rather  
Labours, with delight to gather  
Knowledge from such learned Writs,  
As are left by famous Wits.  
Where, She chiefly seeks to know,  
God; Herself; and what we owe,  
To our Neighbour: since with these,  
Come all needful Knowledges.  
She, with Adam, never will  
Long to learn both Good and Ill;  
But, her state well understood,  
Rests herself, content with Good.  
Avarice, abhorreth she,  
As the lothsom'st things that be:  
Since she knows it is an ill,  
That doth ripest virtue kill.  
And, where ere it comes to rest,  
(Though in some strict Matron's breast)  
Be she ne'er so seeming just,  
I'll no shows of Goodness trust.  
For, if you but gold can bring;  
Such, are hired to any thing.  
If you think she jealous be;  
You are wide: For, credit me,  
Her strongest jealousies, nought are,  
Other than an honest care,  
Of her friends. And, most can tell,  
Who so wants that, loves not well.  
Though some little fear she shows,  
'tis no more than love allows:  
So the passion do not move her,  
Till she grieve, or wrong her lover.  
She may think He may do ill;  
Though, she'll not believe he will.  
Nor, can such a harmless thought,  
Blemish true affection ought:  
Rather, when as else it would,  
Through security grow cold.  
This her Passion, keeping measure,  
Strengthens Love, and sweetens Pleasure.  
Cruelty, her soul detests;  
For, within her Bosom rests,  
Noblest Pity; usherd by,  
An unequalled Courtesy.  
And, is grieved at good men's moan,  
As the grief were all her own.  
Just she is; so just, that I  
Know she would not wrong a Fly;  
Or, oppress the meanest thing,  
To be Mistress to a King.  
If our Painters would include,  
Temperance, and Fortitude,  
In one Picture; She would fit,  
For the nonce to pattern it.  
Patient, as the Lamb is she.  
Harmless, as the Turtles be.  
Yea, so largely stored, with all  
Which we Mortals Goodness call;  
That, if ever Virtue were,  
Or may be, incarnate here;  
This is she, whose praises, I  
Offer to Eternity.  
she's no Image trimmed about,  
Fair within, and foul without:  
But a jemm that doth appear,  
Like the Diamond, every where,  
Sparkling rays of Beauty forth;  
All of such unblemished worth,  
That wert possible, your eye  
Might her inmost thoughts espy,  
And behold the dimmest part,  
Of the lustre in her heart.  
It would find that Centre pass,  
What the Superficies was.  
And, that every angle there,  
Like a Diamonds inside were.  
For, although that Excellence  
Pass the piercingst Eye of Sense;  
By their operations we,  
Guess at things that hidden be.  
So (beyond our common reach)  
Wise men can by Reason teach,  
What the influences been,  
Of a Planet, when unseen;  
Or the Beauty of a Star,  
That doth shine above us far.  
So, by that wide-beaming Light,  
Wherewith Titan Courts our sight,  
By his clothing of the Earth;  
By the wondrous, various Birth,  
Of new Creatures, yearly bred  
Through his heat; and nourished:  
And by many Virtues more  
(Which our Senses reach unto)  
We conclude; they are not all,  
Which make fair that goodly Ball.  
Though she prise her honour more,  
Then the far-fetched precious store  
Of the rich Molucchi, or  
All the wealth was trafficked for,  
Since our Vessels, passage knew  
Unto Mexico, Peru:  
Or those spacious Kingdoms, which  
Make the proud Iberians rich.  
'tis not that uncertain blast,  
Keeps my Mistress Good, or Chast.  
Shee, that but for honour's sake,  
Doth of ill a Conscience make;  
(More in fear what Rumour says,  
Then in love to virtuous ways)  
Though she seemed more civil than,  
You have seen a Courtesan,  
For an honour: And cries Oh fie,  
At each show of vanity.  
Though she censure all that be,  
Not so foolish coy as she.  
Though she with the Roman Dame  
Kill herself, to purchase fame.  
She would prostitute become,  
To the meanest basest Groom;  
If so closely they may do it,  
As the world should never know it.  
So at best those women prove,  
That for honour; virtue love.  
Give me her, that Goodness chooseth  
For it own sake: And refuseth  
To have greatest honours gained,  
With her secret conscience stained.  
Give me her, that would be poor;  
Die disgraced; nay, thought a whore;  
And each Time's reproach become,  
Till the general day of Doom:  
Rather than consent to act  
Pleasing Sin, though by the fact,  
(With esteem of virtuous) she  
Might the Germane Empress be.  
Such my Mistress is; and nought  
Shall have power to change her thought.  
Pleasure's cannot tempt her eye,  
On their Baits to glance awry.  
For their good she still esteems,  
As it is; not as it seems:  
And, she takes no comfort in  
Sweetest pleasure, soured with Sinn.  
By herself, she hath such care,  
That her actions decent are.  
For, were she in secret hid,  
None might see her what she did.  
She would do, as if for spies,  
Every wall were stuck with eyes.  
And be chary of her honour,  
Cause the heavens do look upon her.  
And, oh what had power to move,  
Flames of Lust, or wanton love,  
So far, to disparage us,  
If we all, were minded thus?  
These, are Beauties that shall last,  
When the Crimson blood shall waste;  
And the shining Hair wax grey:  
Or with age be worn away.  
These, yield pleasures, such as might,  
Be remembered with delight;  
When we gasp our latest breath,  
On the loathed bed of death.  
Though discreetly speak she can,  
she'll be silent, rather than  
Talk while others may be heard.  
As if she did hate, or feared,  
Their Condition; who will force  
All, to wait on their Discourse.  
Reason hath on her bestowed  
More of knowledge, than she owed  
To that Sex: and Grace with it,  
Doth aright her Practice fit.  
Yet, hath Fate so framed her,  
As she may at sometime, err:  
But, if ere her judgement stray,  
'tis that other women may,  
Those much-pleasing Beauties see,  
Which in yielding Natures be.  
For, since no perfection can  
Here on earth be found in Man,  
there's more good in free submissions,  
Then there's ill in our transgressions.  
Should you hear her, once, contend,  
In discoursing, to defend  
(As she can) a doubtful Cause:  
She such strong Positions draws  
From known Truths; and doth apply,  
Reasons with such Majesty:  
As if she did undertake,  
From some Oracle to speak.  
And you could not think, what might  
Breed more love, or more delight.  
Yet, if you should mark again,  
Her discreet behaviour, when  
She finds Reason to repent  
Some wrong-pleaded Argument.  
She so temperately lets all  
Her mis-held opinions fall;  
And, can with such Mildness bow:  
As 'twill more enamour you,  
Then her knowledge. For, there are  
Pleasing sweets without compare  
In such yielding; which do prove,  
Wit, Humility, and Love..  
Yea, by those mistake; you  
Her Condition so shall know,  
(And the nature of her mind,  
So undoubtedly shall find)  
As will make her, more endeared,  
Then if she had never erred.  
Farther; that she nought may miss,  
Which worth praise in woman, is:  
This, unto the rest I add.  
If I wound, or sickness, had;  
None should for my curing run.  
(No not to Apollo's son)  
She, so well, the Virtue knows,  
Of each needful Herb that grows;  
And so fitly, can apply,  
Salves to every Malady:  
That, if she, no succour gave me,  
'twere no means of Art, could save me.  
Should my Soul oppressed lie,  
(Sunk with grief and sorrow nigh)  
She hath balm for minds distressed;  
And could ease my pained breast.  
She so well knows how to season,  
Passionate discourse with Reason;  
And knows how to sweeten it,  
Both with so much love and wit;  
That, it shall prepare the Sense.  
To give way with less offence.  
For, grieved minds, can ill abide,  
Counsel churlishly applied:  
Which, instead of comfort;  
Desperation, often brings.  
But, hark Nymphs: me thinks, I hear  
Music, sounding in mine ear.  
'tis a Lute: And he's the best  
For a Voice, in all the West,  
That doth touch it. And the Swain,  
I would have you hear so fain,  
That my Song, forbear will I,  
To attend his melody.  
Hither comes he, day by day,  
In these Groves to sing, and play,  
And, in yonn close Arbour, He  
Sitteth now, expecting me.  
He, so bashful is; that mute  
Will his Tougne be, and his Lute,  
Should he happen to espy  
This, unlooked for Company.  
If you, therefore list to hear him,  
Let's with silence walk more near him.  
'twill be worth your pains (believe me)  
(If a Voice, content may give ye)  
And, await you shall not long;  
For, He now begins a Song.  


Sonnet. 1.  

WHat is the cause, when elsewhere I resort,  
I have my Gestures, and Discourse more free?  
And (if I please) can any Beauty Court,  
Yet stand so dull, and so demure by thee?  
Why are my speeches broken, whilst I talk?  
Why do I fear almost thy hand to touch?  
Why dare I not embrace thee as we walk,  
Since, with the greatest Nymphs I've dared as much?  
Ah! know that none of those I e'er affected;  
And therefore, used a careless Courtship there:  
Because, I neither their Disdain respected,  
Nor reckoned them, or their embraces dear.  
But, loving Thee; my Love hath found content;  
And rich delights, in things indifferent.    

Sonnet. 2.  

WHy Covet I, thy blessed eyes to see;  
Whose sweet aspect, may cheer the saddest mind?  
Why, when our bodies must divided be,  
Can I no hour of rest, or pleasure find?  
Why do I sleeping start, and waking moan,  
To find, that of my dreamt Hopes I miss?  
Why, do I of●en contemplate alone,  
Of such a thing as thy Perfection is?  
And wherefore, when we meet, doth Passion stop  
My speechless Tongue, and leave me in a panting?  
Why, doth my heart o'rechargd with fear & hope  
(In spite of Reason) almost droop to fainting?  
Because, in Me thy excellencies moving,  
Have drawn me to an Excellence in loving.    

Sonnet. 3  

Fair, since thy Virtues my affections move,  
And I have vowed, my purpose is to join,  
(In an eternal Band of chastest Love)  
Our Souls, to make a Marriage most divine.  
Why (thou mayst think) then, seemeth he to prize,  
An outward Beauties fading how so much?  
Why, doth he read such Lectures in mine eyes?  
And often strive my tender palm to touch?  
Oh pardon my presuming: For I swear,  
My Love is soiled, with no lustful spot:  
Thy Souls perfections, through those veils appear,  
And I half faint, that I embrace them not.  
No foul Desires, doth make thy touches sweet:  
But, my Soul striveth, with thy Soul to meet.    

Sonnet 4.  

SHall I wasting in Despair,  
Dye because a Woman's fair?  
Or make pale my cheeks with care,  
'Cause another's Rosy are?  
Be she fairer than the Day,  
Or the Flowery Meads in May;  
If She be not so to me,  
What care I how fair she be.   

Should my heart be grieved or pined,  
'Cause I see a Woman kind?  
Or a well disposed Nature,  
joined with a lovely Feature?  
Be she meeker, kinder, than  
Turtle-dove, or Pelican:  
If she be not so to me,  
What care I, how kind she be.   

Shall a Woman's Virtues move,  
Me, to perish for her love?  
Or, her well-deserving known,  
Make me quite forget mine own?  
Be she with that Goodness blest,  
Which may gain her, name of Best:  
If she be not such to me,  
What care I, how good she be.   

'Cause her Fortune seems too high,  
Shall I play the fool, and dye?  
Those that bear a Noble mind,  
Where they want of Riches find,  
Think, what with them, they would do,  
That without them, dare to woo.  
And, unless that mind I see,  
What care I, though Great she be.   

Great, or Good, or Kind, or Fair,  
I will ne'er the more despair,  
If She love me, this believe;  
I will die, ere she shall grieve.  
If she slight me, when I woo;  
I can scorn, and let her go.  
For, if she be not for me,  
What care I, for whom she be.    

Sonnet 5.  

I Wandered out, awhile agone,  
And went I know not whither:  
But, there do Beauties many a one,  
Resort, and meet together.  
And Cupid's power will there be shown,  
If ever you come thither.   

For, like two Suns, two Beauties bright,  
I shining saw together.  
And, tempted by their double light,  
My eyes I fixed on either:  
Till both at once, so thralled my sight,  
I loved, and knew not whether.   

Such equal sweet Venus gave,  
That I preferred not either.  
And when for love, I thought to crave,  
I knew not well of whether.  
For, one while, This, I wished to have,  
And then, I That, had liefer.   

A Lover of the curious't Eye,  
Might have been pleased in either.  
And so, I must confess, might I,  
Had they not been together.  
Now, both must love, or both deny,  
In one, enjoy I neither.   

But yet at last I scaped the smart,  
I feared, at coming hither.  
For, seeing my divided heart,  
I choosing, knew not whether.  
Love's angry grew, and did depart;  
And now, I care for neither.     
SEe; these Trees so ill did hide us,  
That the Shepherd hath espied us:  
And (as jealous of his cunning)  
All in haste away is running.  
To entreat him back again,  
Would be labour spent in vain.  
You may therefore, now, betake ye  
To the Music I can make ye;  
Who, do purpose my Invention,  
Shall pursue my first Intention.  
For, in Her (whose worth I tell)  
Many excellences dwell,  
Yet unmentioned: whose perfections  
Worthy are of best affections.  
That, which is so rare to find,  
Both in Man, and Womankind:  
That; whose absence Love defaceth,  
And both Sexes more disgraceth,  
Then the spite of furrowed Age,  
Sicknesses, or Sorrow's rage:  
That's the jewel so divine,  
Which doth on her Forehead shine.  
And, therewith endowed is She,  
In an excellent degree.  
CONSTANCY (I mean) the purest  
Of all Beauties; and the surest.  
For, who e'er doth that possess,  
Hath an endless Loveliness.  
All Afflictions, Labours, Crosses,  
All our Dangers, Wounds, and losses,  
Games of Pleasure, we can make,  
For that matchless Woman's sake;  
In whose breast that Virtue bideth:  
And we joy what e'er betideth.  
Most dejected Hearts it gladdeth:  
Twenty thousand glories addeth  
Unto Beauty's brightest Ray:  
And, preserves it from decay.  
'tis the Salt, that's made to season,  
Beauty, for the use of Reason.  
'tis the Varnish, and the Oiling,  
Keeps her Colours fresh, from spoiling.  
'tis an Excellence, whereby  
Age, though joined with Povertie,  
Hath more dear Affection won,  
Then fresh Youth, and Wealth have done.  
'tis a Loveliness, endearing  
Beauties, scarce worth note, appearing;  
Whilst a fairer fickle Dame,  
Nothing gains, but scorn and shame.  
Further; 'tis a Beauty, such  
As I can nor praise too much,  
Nor frame Measures, to express.  
No; nor any man, unless  
He, who (more than all men crossed)  
Finds it in that Woman lost;  
On whose Faith, he would have pawned  
Life, and all he could command.  
Such a Man may by that Miss  
Make us know how dear it is;  
When, o'ercharged with Grief, he shall  
Sigh, and break his heart withal.  
This is that Perfection, which  
In her favour makes me rich.  
All whose Beauties (named before)  
Else, would but torment me more:  
And, in having this, I find,  
(What e'er haps) a quiet mind:  
Yea, 'tis that, which I do prize,  
far above her Lips, her Eyes:  
Or, that general Beauty, whence  
Shines each several Excellence.  
For, alas! what gained hath he,  
Who may clip the fairest Shee  
(That the name of Woman bears)  
If, unhappily, he fears,  
Any others Worth, may win,  
What he thought his own had been?  
Him, Baseminded deem I should,  
Who (although he were in Hold,  
Wrapped in chains) would not disdain,  
Love with her to entertain  
That both daughter to a Peer,  
And most rich and lovely were;  
When a brainless Gull shall dare,  
In her, favours with him share:  
Or, the Action of a Player,  
Robb him of a Hope so fair.  
This, I dread not: For, I know,  
Strained gestures, painted show,  
Shameless boastings, borrowed jests,  
Female Looks, gay-plumed Crests,  
Vows nor protestations vain,  
(Wherewith fools are made so vain)  
Move her can; save to contemn,  
Or perhaps, to laugh at them.  
Neither can I doubt, or fear,  
Time shall either change or wear  
This her Virtue: Or, impair  
That which makes her Soul, so fair.  
In which Trust, great Comforts are,  
Which, the fear of loss, would mar.  
Nor hath this my rare Hope stood,  
So much, in her being good;  
(With her love to blessed Things)  
As in her acknowledgings,  
From a higher Power to have them;  
And her love, to Him, that gave them.  
For, although to have a mind  
Naturally to Good inclined,  
(And to love it) would assure  
Reason, that it might endure.  
Yet (since Man was first unjust)  
there's no warrant for such Trust.  
Virtues, that most wonder win,  
Would converted be to Sin;  
If their flourishings began,  
From no better Root, then Man.  
Our best Virtues, when they are  
Of themselves, we may compare,  
To the beauty of a Flower,  
That is blasted in an hour:  
And, which growing to be fuller,  
Turns into some loathed Colour.  
But, those being freely given,  
And confirmed in us from Heaven;  
Have a promise on them past:  
And for evermore shall last;  
Diamondlike, their lustre clearing,  
More and more, by use and wearing.  
But, if this rare Worth I praise,  
Should by Fates permission, raise  
Passions in some gentle Breast,  
That distemper may his rest;  
(And be Author of such Treason,  
As might nigh endanger Reason)  
Or, enforce his tongue to crave,  
What another man must have.  
Mark, in such a Straight as this,  
How discreet her dealing is.  
She, is nothing of their humours,  
Who, their honour build on Rumours,  
And, had rather private sporting,  
Then allow of open courting:  
Nor of theirs, that would seem holy,  
By diuulging others folly.  
Farther is she from their guise,  
That delight to Tyrannize,  
Or make boastings, in espying,  
Others for their favours dying.  
She, a spirit doth possess  
So replete with Nobleness,  
That, if she be there beloved,  
Where she ought not to be moved,  
Equally, to love again:  
She, doth so well entertain  
That affection; as there's none  
Can suppose it, ill bestown.  
From deluding, she is free:  
From disdain, as far is she:  
And so feelingly bears part,  
Of what pains another heart;  
That no curse, of scorned duty,  
Shall draw vengeance on her Beauty.  
Rather, with so tender fear,  
Of her Honour, and their care,  
She is touched; that neither shall,  
Wrong unto herself, befall;  
(By the favour she doth show)  
Nor will she neglect them so;  
As may just occafion give,  
Any way to make them grieve.  
Hope, she will not let them see,  
Lest they should presuming be;  
And aspire to that, which none,  
Ever must enjoy but One.  
From Despair, she keeps them to;  
Fearing, they might hap to do,  
Either through Love's indiscretions,  
(Or much over stirred passions)  
What, might with their hurt & shame,  
Into question call her name.  
And a scandal on her bring,  
Who is just in every thing.  
She hath marked how others run;  
And by them hath learned to shun,  
Both their fault, who (overwise)  
Err, by being too precise:  
And their folly that o'er kind,  
Are to all complaints inclined.  
For, her wit hath found the way,  
How a while to hold them play;  
And, that in convenience shun,  
Whereinto, both seem to run;  
By allowing them a scope,  
Just betwixt Despair, and Hope.  
Where confined, and reaching neither▪  
They do take a part in either:  
Till, long living in suspense,  
(Tired by her indifference)  
Time, at last, their Passion wears;  
Passions wearing, Reason clears;  
Reason gives their judgement light;  
judgement bringeth all to right.  
So, their Hope appearing vain,  
They become themselves again.  
And, with high applauses, fit,  
For such Virtue, with such Wit;  
They, that service, only proffer,  
She may take, and they may offer.  
Yet, this course she never proves;  
Save with those, whose virtuous Loves▪  
Use the noblest means of gaining,  
Favours, worthy the obtaining.  
And, if such should chance to err,  
(Either against themselves, or her)  
In some oversights, when they,  
Are through Passion led astray.  
She, so well man's frailty knows,  
With the Darts that Beauty throws;  
As she will not adding terror,  
Break the heart for one poor error.  
Rather (if still good they be)  
Twenty remedies hath she,  
Gently to apply, where Sense  
Hath invaded Reasons Fence;  
And, without or wound, or scar,  
Turns to Peace, a lawless War.  
But, to those whose base fires,  
Breath out smoke of such desires,  
As may dim with unpure steames,  
Any part of Beauty's beams.  
She, will deign no milder way,  
Those foul burnings to allay;  
Save, with such extreme neglect,  
As shall work her wished effect.  
And, to use so sharp a cure,  
she's not oft constrained sure.  
Cause, upon her forehead, still  
Goodness sits, so feared of iii.  
That the scorn, and high disdains,  
Where with all she entertains,  
Those loathed glances; giveth ending,  
To such flamings in the tynding:  
That their cooled Hopes, needs must  
Frieze Desires, in heat of Lust.  
'tis a power that never lies,  
In the fairest immodest eyes.  
Wantoness; 'tis not your sweet eying,  
Forced Passions, feigned Die,  
Gestures tempt, Tears beguilings,  
Dance, Sing, Kiss, Smile;  
Nor those painted sweets, with which,  
You unwary men bewitch:  
(All united, nor asunder)  
That can compass such a wonder.  
Or, to win you love prevails,  
Where her moving Virtues, fails.  
Beauties, 'tis not all those Features,  
Placed in the fairest Creatures;  
Though their best they should discover,  
That can tempt from Her, a Lover.  
'tis not, those soft-snowie Breasts,  
Where Love rocked in pleasure, rests;  
(And by their continual motions,  
Draweth hearts to vain devotions)  
Nor the Nectar that we sip  
From a hony-dropping Lip:  
Nor those Eyes, whence Beauties Lances,  
Wound the heart, with wanton glances:  
Nor, those sought Delights, that lie  
In Love's hidden Treasury▪  
That, can liking gain, where she,  
Will the best beloved be.  
For, should those who think they may,  
Draw my love from her away;  
Bring forth all their female Graces,  
Wrapped me, in their close embraces;  
Practise all the Art they may;  
Weep, or sing, or kiss, or pray,  
And with sighs and looks come woe me,  
When they soon may undo me:  
One poor thought of Her, would arm me  
So, as Circe could not harm me.  
Since beside those Excellences,  
Wherewith, others please the Senses;  
She, whom I have prised so,  
Yields delights, for Reason to.  
Who could Dote on thing so common,  
As mere outward handsome Woman?  
Those halfe-beauties, only win  
Fools, to let affection in.  
Vulgar wits, from Reason shaken,  
Are with such impostures taken:  
And, with all their Art in Love,  
Wantoness, can but Wantoness move.  
But, when unto those, are joined;  
Those things which adorn the Mind:  
None, their excellences see,  
But they strait enthralled be.  
Fools, and wisemen, worst and best,  
Subject are to Love's Arrest.  
For, when Virtue woos a Lover,  
she's an unresisted mover:  
That will have no kind of Nay,  
And in Love brooks no delay.  
She, can make the Sensual Wights,  
To restrain their Appetites.  
And, (her beauty when they see)  
Spite of Vice, in Love to be:  
Yea (although themselves be bad)  
Praise the good they never had.  
She, hath to her service brought,  
Those, that Her, have set at nought;  
And can fair enough appear,  
To inflame the most severe.  
She, hath oft alured out,  
The religiously devout,  
From their Cloisters, & their Vows▪  
To embrace what She allows:  
And, to such contentments come,  
As blind zeal had bard them from.  
While (her laws misunderstood)  
They did ill for love of Good.  
Where I find true worth to be,  
Sweetest are their lips to me:  
And embraces tempt me to,  
More than outward Beauties do.  
That my firm belief is this:  
If ever I do amiss;  
Seeming-Good, the bait will lay,  
That to ill shall me betray:  
Since, where shows of Goodness are,  
I am oft emboldened there,  
Freedoms so permit, and use;  
Which, I elsewhere do refuse:  
For because I think they mean,  
To allow no deed unclean.  
Yet, where two, love Virtue shall,  
Both at once, they seldom fall.  
For, when one hath thoughts of ill,  
T'other helps e●ile them still.  
My fair Virtues power is this.  
And, that pour the Beauty is,  
Which doth make Her, here expressed,  
Equally both Fair, and Blessed.  
This, was that contenting Grace,  
Which affection made me place,  
With so dear respect, that never  
Can it fail; but, last for ever.  
This; a Servant made me sworn,  
Who before time, held in scorn,  
To yield Vassilage, or Duty,  
Though, unto the Queen of Beauty.  
Yet, that I her Servant am,  
It shall more be to my fame;  
Then to own these Woods and Downs:  
Or be Lord of fifty Towns.  
And my Mistress to be deemed,  
Shall more honour be esteemed;  
Then those Titles to acquire,  
Which most women, most desire.  
Yea, when you a woman shall,  
Countess, or a Duchess call;  
That respect it shall not move,  
Neither gain her half such love,  
As to say, Lo, this is she,  
That supposed is to be,  
Mistress to PHIL●ARETE.  
And, that lovely Nymph, which he,  
In a Pastoral Poem famed,  
And FAIRE-VIRTVE, there hath named.  
Yea, some Ladies (ten to one)  
If not many (now unknown)  
Will be very well paid,  
When by chance, She hears it said  
She, that Fair-one is; whom I,  
Here have praised, concealedly.  
And, though now this Age's pride,  
May so brave a Hope deride.  
Yet, when all their Glories pass  
As the thiug that never was;  
(And on Monuments appear,  
That, they ere had breathing here)  
Who envy it: She shall thrive  
In her Fame▪ And honoured live,  
Whilst Great-Bri●taines Shepherds, sing  
English, in their Sonnetting.  
And, who ere in future days,  
Shall bestow the utmost praise,  
On his Love; that any Man,  
Attribute to Creature can.  
'twill be this; that he hath dared,  
His, and Mine to have compared.  
Oh! what stars did shine on me,  
When her Eyes I first did see?  
And how good was their aspect,  
When we first did both affect?  
For, I never since to changing  
Was inclined, or thought of ranging.  
Me, so oft my Fancy drew,  
Here and there, that I ne'er knew  
Where to place Desire, before,  
So, that range it might no more.  
But, as he that passeth by,  
Where in all her jollity,  
Flora's riches in a row,  
Doth in seemly order grow:  
And a thousand Flowers stand,  
Bending as to kiss his hand;  
Out of which delightful store,  
One he may take; and no more.  
Long he pausing, doubteth whether,  
Of those fair ones he should gather.  
First, the Primrose Courts his eyes;  
Then, the Cowslip he espies;  
Next, the Pansey seems to woo him;  
Then, Carnations bow unto him:  
Which, whilst that enamoured Swain  
From the stalk intends to strain,  
(As half fearing to be seen)  
Prettily her leaves between  
Peeps the Violet: pale, to see,  
That her Virtues slighted be.  
Which, so much his liking wins,  
That, to cease her, he begins.  
Yet, before he stooped so low,  
He, his wanton eye did throw  
On a Stem that grew more high,  
And the Rose did there espy:  
Who, beside her precious scent  
(To procure his eyes content)  
Did display her goodly Breast;  
Where he found at full expressed,  
All the Good, that Nature showers  
On a thousand other Flowers.  
Wherewith he, affected, takes it;  
His beloved Flower he makes it.  
And, without desire of more,  
Walks through all, he saw before.  
So, I wand'ring, but erewhile,  
Through the Garden of this I'll,  
Saw rich Beauties (I confess)  
And in number, numberless.  
Yea, so differing lovely to,  
That, I had a world to do,  
Ere I could set up my rest,  
Where to choose; and choose the best.  
One I saw, whose Hair excelled,  
On another's Brow there dwelled,  
Such a Majesty: it seemed,  
She, was best to be esteemed.  
This, had with her Speeches won me,  
That, with Silence, had undone me.  
On her Lips, the Graces hung;  
T'other, charmed me with her tongue.  
In her Eyes, a third did bear,  
That, which did anew ensnare.  
Then a fourth did fairer show;  
Yet, wherein I did not know.  
Only this perceived I,  
Somewhat pleased my Fantasy.  
Now, the Wealth I most esteemed;  
Honour then, I better deemed.  
Next, the love of Beauty seized me,  
And, than Virtue better pleased me.  
Juno's love, I nought esteemed,  
Whilst a Venus fairer seemed.  
Nay, both could not Me suffice;  
Whilst a Pallas was more wise.  
Though I found enough in One,  
To content, if still alone.  
Amarillis, I did woo;  
And I courted Phillis to.  
Daphne, for her love I chose;  
Cloris for that Damask Rose,  
In her Cheek, I held as dear;  
Yea, a thousand like, wellnear.  
And, in love with altogether,  
Feared the enjoying either;  
Cause, to be of one possessed,  
Barred the hope of all the rest.  
Thus I fond fared, till Fate,  
Which (I must confess in that  
Did a greater favour to me,  
Then the world can malice do me)  
Showed to me that matchless Flower,  
Subject for this Song of our.  
Whose perfection, having eyed,  
Reason instantly espied;  
That, Desire (which ranged abroad)  
There, would find a Period.  
And no marvel, if it might:  
For, it there hath all delight;  
And in her hath Nature placed,  
What each several fair one graced.  
Nor am I, alone delighted,  
With those Graces all united;  
Which the Senses eye, doth find,  
Scattered, throughout Womankind.  
But, my Reason finds perfections,  
To inflame my Souls affections.  
Yea, such virtues she possesseth,  
As with firmest pleasures blesseth:  
And keeps sound, that Beauty's state,  
Which would else grow ruinated.  
In this Flower, are sweets such store;  
I shall never, wish for more.  
Nor be tempted out to stray,  
For the fairest Budds in May.  
Let who lift (for me) advance,  
The admired Flowers of France,  
Let who will; praise, and behold,  
The reserved Marigold.  
Let the sweet breath't Violet, now,  
Unto whom she pleaseth, bow.  
And the fairest Lily, spread  
Where she will, her golden head.  
I have such a Flower to wear,  
That for those I do not care.  
Never shall my Fancy range,  
Nor once think again of change:  
Never will I; (never more)  
Grieve, or sigh, as heretofore:  
Nor within the Lodgings lie,  
Of Despair, or jealousy.  
Let the young and happy Swains,  
Playing on the Britain Plains:  
Court unblamd, their Sheepherdesses.  
And with their gold-curled Tresses;  
Toy uncensured; until I  
grudge at their prosperity.  
Let all Times; both Present, Past,  
And the Age, that shall be last,  
Vaunt the Beauties they bring forth.  
I have found in One, such worth:  
That (content) I neither care,  
What the best before me were:  
Nor desire to live, and see,  
Who shall Fair hereafter be.  
For, I know the hand of Nature,  
Will not make a fairer Creature.  
Which, because succeeding Days,  
Shall confess; and add their praise,  
In approving, what my tongue,  
Ere they had their being, sung.  
Once again, come lend an ear,  
And, a Rapture you shall hear,  
(Though I taste no Thespian Spring)  
Will amaze you, whilst I sing.  
I do feel new Strains inspiring,  
And to such brave heights aspiring,  
That my Muse will touch a Key,  
Higher, than you heard to day.  
I have Beauties to unfold,  
That deserve a Pen of Gold.  
Sweets, that never dreamed of were.  
Things unknown: and such, as Ear  
Never heard a Measure sound;  
Since the Sun first ran his Round.  
When Apelles limbed to life,  
Loathed Vulcan's lovely wife.  
With such Beauties, he did trim,  
Each sweet Feature, and each Limb▪  
And, so curiously did place,  
Every well-becoming Grace.  
That 'twas said, ere he could draw  
Such a Piece; he naked saw  
Many women in their Prime,  
And the fairest of that Time.  
From all which, he parts did take,  
Which aright disposed, make  
Perfect Beauty. So, when you  
Know, what I have yet to show:  
It will seem to pass so far,  
Those things which expressed are.  
That, you will suppose I've been  
Privileged; where I have seen,  
All the Good, that's spread in parts,  
Through a thousand women's hearts.  
(With their fairest conditions lie,  
Bare, without Hypocrisy)  
And, that I, have taken from thence,  
Each dispersed Excellence.  
To express Her, who hath gained  
More, than ever One obtained.  
And yet soft, (I fear) in vain,  
I have boasted such a Strain.  
Apprehensions ever are  
Greater, than expression far.  
And, my striving to disclose  
What I know; hath made me lose  
My Inventions better part:  
And, my Hopes exceed my Art.  
Speak I can; yet think I more,  
Words compared with Thoughts, are poor.  
And I find, had I begun,  
Such a Strain; it would be done,  
When we number all the sands,  
Washed o'er perjured goodwin's lands.  
For, of things, I should indite;  
Which, I know, are infinite.  
I do yield, my Thoughts did climb,  
Far above the power of Rhyme:  
And no wonder, it is so;  
Since, there is no Art can show;  
Red in Roses, white in Snow;  
Nor express how they do grow.  
Yea, since Bird, Beast, Stone, and Tree,  
(That inferior Creatures be)  
Beauties have, which we confess,  
Lines unable to express:  
They more hardly can enrol,  
Those, that do adorn a Soul.  
But, suppose my Measures could,  
Reach the height, I thought they would.  
Now, relate, I would not tho;  
What did swell within me so.  
For, if I should all descry,  
You would know as much as I:  
And those Clowns, the Muse's hate,  
Would of things above them prate.  
Or, with their profaning eyes,  
Come to view those Mysteries,  
Whereof, (since they disesteemed them)  
Heaven, hath unworthy deemed them.  
And beside; It seems to me,  
That your ears nigh tired be.  
● perceive; the fire that charmeth,  
And inspireth me; scarce warmeth  
Your i'll hearts. Nay sure; were I  
Melted into Poesy,  
● should not a Measure hit,  
Though Apollo promted it)  
Which should able be to leave,  
That in you, which I conceive.  
You are cold; and here I may  
Waste my vital heat away,  
ere you will be moved so much,  
As to feel one perfect touch  
Of those Swee●s, which yet concealed  
Swell my breast, to be revealed.  
Now, my Words, I therefore cease:  
That, my mounting Thoughts, in peace,  
May alone, those pleasure's share,  
Whereof, Lines unworthy are.  
And so, you an end do see  
Of my Song; though long it be.  
NO sooner had the Shepherd Philaret,  
To this Description his last period set:  
But, instantly, descending from a Wood,  
(Which, on a rising ground, adjoining stood)  
A troop of Satyrs to the view of all,  
Came dancing of a new-devised Brall.  
The Measures they did pace, by Him, were taught th●  
Who, to so rare a gentleness had brought them,  
That he, had learnt their rudeness an observing,  
Of such respect unto the well-deserving,  
As they became to no men else a terror,  
But such, as did persist in wilful error:  
And they, the Ladies made no whit afeard,  
Though since that time they some great men have scared.  
Their Dance, the Whipping of Abuse they named;  
And, though the Shepherd since that, hath been blamed,  
Yet, now 'tis daily seen in every town;  
And there's no Countrey-Dance that's better known:  
Nor, that hath gained a greater commendation,  
●Mongst those that love an honest recreation.  
This Scene presented; from a Grove was heard,  
A set of Viols; and, there was prepared  
A Country Banquet, which this Shepherd made,  
To entertain the Ladies, in the shade.  
And 'tis supposed, his Song prolonged was  
Of purpose, that it might be brought to pass.  
●o well it was performed, that each one deemed,  
The Banquet might the City have beseemed.  
Yet, better was their Welcome then their Fare:  
Which they perceived, and the merrier were.  
One Beauty tho, there sat amongst the rest;  
That looked as sad, as if her heart oppressed  
With Love had been. Whom Philaret beholding,  
●it so demurely, and her Arms enfolding.  
Lady (quoth he) am I, or this poor cheer,  
●he cause that you so melancholy are?  
●or, if the Object of your thoughts be higher,  
●t fits nor me to know them; nor inquire.  
〈◊〉 if from me it cometh, that offends,  
● seek the Cause, that I may make amends.  
Kind Swain (said she) it is nor so, nor so.  
No fault in you, nor in your Cheer I know.  
Nor do I think there is a Thought in me;  
That can too worthy of your knowledge be.  
Nor have I, many a day, more pleasure had,  
Then here I find; though I have seemed sad.  
My hart, is sometime heavy, when I smile;  
And when I grieve, I often sing the while.  
Nor is it sadness, that doth me possess,  
But, rather, musing with much seriousness,  
Upon that multitude of sighs and tears;  
With those innumerable doubts and fears:  
Through which, you passed▪ ere you could acquire▪  
A settled Hope of gaining your Desire.  
For, you dared love a Nymph, so great, and fair,  
As might have brought a Prince unto Despair.  
And sure, the excellency of your Passions,  
Did then produce as excellent expressions.  
If therefore, Me, the suit may well become;  
And, if to you it be not wearisome:  
In name of all these Ladies, I entreat,  
That, one of those sad Strains you would repeat,  
Which you composed; when greatest discontent  
Vnsought-for help, to your Invention lent.  
Fair Nymph (said Philarer) I will do so.  
For, though your Shepherd, doth no Courtship know  
He hath Humanity. And, what's in me  
To do you Service, may commanded be.  
So, taking down a Lute, that near him hung,  
He gaueed his Boy, who played; whilst this, he sung.  

Ah me!  
Am I the Swain,  
That late from sorrow free,  
Did all the cares on earth disdain?  
And still untouched, as at some safer Games,  
Played with the burning coals of Love, & Beautis flames?  
Wast I, could dive, & sound each passions secret depth at will;  
And, from those huge overwhelming, rise, by help of Reason still?  
And am I now, oh heavens! for trying this in vain,  
So sunk, that I shall never rise again?  
Then let Despair, set Sorrows string,  
For Strains that dolefulst be.  
And I will sing,  
Ah me.   

But why,  
Oh fatal Time!  
Dost thou constrain that I,  
Should perish, in my youths sweet prime?  
ay, but a while ago (you cruel Powers)  
Inspite of Fortune, cropped contentments sweetest flowers.  
And yet, unscorned, serve a gentle Nymph, the fairest She,  
That ever was beloved of Man, or Eyes did ever see.  
Yea, one, whose tender heart, would rue for my distress;  
Yet I, poor I; must perish nay-the less.  
And (which much more augments my care)  
Vnmoaned I must dye:  
And, no man ere,  
Kn●w why.   

Thy leave,  
My dying Song,  
Yet take, ere grief bereave,  
The breath which I enjoy too long.  
Tell thou that Fair-one this; my soul prefers,  
Her love above my life, and that I died hers:  
And let Him be, for evermore, to her remembrance dear,  
Who loved the very thought of Her, whilst he remained here.  
And now, farewell thou Place, of my unhappy birth;  
Where once I breathed the sweetest air on earth.  
Since me, my wont joys forsake;  
And all my trust deceive:  
Of all, I take  
My leave.   

Farewell,  
Sweet Groves to you:  
You Hills, that highest dwell;  
And all you humble Vales, adieu.  
You wanton Brooks, and solitary Rocks,  
My dear companions all, and you, my tender flocks.  
Forewell my Pipe, and all these pleasing Songs, whose moving strains  
Delighted once the fairest Nymphs, that dance upon the Plains.  
You Discontents (whose deep, & over deadly smart,  
Have, without pity, broke the truest heart)  
Sighs, Tears, and every sad annoy,  
That erst did with me dwell,  
And all others joy,  
Farewell.   

Adieu,  
Fair Shepherdesses:  
Let Garlands of sad Yew,  
Adorn your dainty golden Tresses.  
ay, that loud you; and often with my Quill,  
Made music that delighted Fountain Grove, & Hill:  
ay, whom you loved so; and with a sweet and chaste embrace,  
(Yea, with a thousand rarer favours) would vouchsafe to grace.  
ay, now must leave you all alone, of Love to plain:  
And never Pipe, nor never Sing again.  
I must, for evermore, be gone;  
And therefore, bid I you,  
And every one,  
Adieu.   

I die!  
For oh, I feel  
Death's horrors, drawing nigh;  
And all this frame of Nature, reel.  
My hopeless heart, despairing of relief,  
Sinks underneath the heavy weight of saddest grief.  
Which, hath so ruthless torn, so racked, (o tortured ' every vain;  
All comfort comes too late, to have it ever cured again.  
My swimming head, begins to dance Death's giddy round.  
A shuddering chilnes doth each sense confound:  
Benumbed, is my cold-sweating brow;  
A dimness shuts my eye;  
And now, oh now,  
I die.   

SO movingly, these Lines He did express,  
And, to a Tune so full of heaviness,  
As if indeed, his purpose had been past,  
To live no longer than the Song did last.  
Which in the Nymphs, such tender passion bred.  
That some of them, did tears of pity shed.  
This, she perceiving, who first craved the Song;  
Shepherd she said; although it be no wrong,  
Nor grief to you, those passions to recall,  
Which heretofore you have been pain withal,  
But Comforts rather; since they now, are over,  
And you (it seemeth) an enjoying Lover.  
Yet, some young Nymphs among us I do see,  
Who so much moved with your passions be:  
That if, my aim, I taken have aright,  
Their thoughts will hardly, let them sleep to night.  
I dare not therefore, beg of you again,  
To sing another of the selfsame Strain:  
For fear, it breed within them, more unrest,  
Than women's weaknesses, can well digest.  
Yet, in your Measures, such content you have;  
That, one Song more I will presume to crave.  
And, if your Memory preserves of those,  
Which you of your Affections did compose,  
Before you saw this Mistress: Let us hear,  
What kind of passions, then, within you were.  
To which request, he instantly obeyed;  
And, this ensuing Song, both sung and played.   

Sonnet. 2.  

YOu gentle Nymphs, that on these meadow's play  
And oft relate the loves of Shepherds young:  
Come, sit you down; for, if you please to stay,  
Now may you hear an uncouth Passion sung.  
A Lad there is, and I am that poor Groom;  
That fallen in love, & cannot tell with whom.   

Oh do not smile at sorrow as a jest;  
With others cares good Natures moved be:  
And, I should weep, if you had my unrest.  
Then, at my grief, how, can you merry be?  
Ah, where is tender pity now become?  
I am in love, and cannot tell with whom.   

ay, that have oft the rarest features viewed,  
And Beauty in her best perfection seen:  
I, that have laughed at them that Love pursued▪  
And ever free, from such affections been.  
Lo now at last, so cruel is my doom;  
I am in love, and cannot tell with whom.   

My heart is full nigh bursting with desire,  
Yet cannot find from whence these longings flow:  
My breast doth burn, but she that lights the fire,  
I never saw, nor can I come to know.  
So great a bliss my fortune keeps my from.  
That though I dearly love; I know not whom.   

Ere I had twice four Springs, renewed seen,  
The force of Beauty I began to prove;  
And, ere I nine years old, had fully been,  
It taught me how to frame a Song of Love..  
And, little thought I, this day should have come,  
Before that I to love, had found out whom.   

For, on my Chinn, the mossy down you see,  
And, in my veins, well-heated blood doth glow:  
Of Summers I have seen twice three times three,  
And, fast, my youthful time away doth go.  
That much I fear, I aged shall become:  
And still complain; I love I know not whom.   

Oh! why had I, a heart bestowed on me,  
To cherish dear affections, so inclined?  
Since, I am so unhappy borne to be  
No Object, for so true a Love to find.  
When I am dead, it will be missed of some:  
Yet, now I live; I love, I know not whom.   

ay, to a thousand beauteous Nymphs am known;  
A hundred Ladies favours do I wear:  
I, with as many, half in love am grown;  
Yet none of them (I find) can be my Dear.  
Me thinks, I have a Mistress, yet to come;  
Which makes me sing; I love I know not whom   

There lives no Swain doth stronger passion prove,  
For her, whom most he covets to possess;  
Then doth my heart, that being full of Love,  
Knows not to whom, it may the same profess.  
For, he that is despised, hath sorrow, some:  
But he hath more; that loves, and knows not whom▪   

Knew I my Love, as many others do,  
To some one object might my thoughts be bend:  
So, they divided should not wand'ring go,  
Until the Souls united force be spent.  
As his, that seeks, and never finds a Home:  
Such is my rest; that love, & know not whom.   

Those, whom the frowns of jealous friends divide,  
May live to meet, and descant on their woe:  
And he, hath gained a Lady for his Bride,  
That durst not woe her Maid, a while ago.  
But oh! what end unto my Hopes can come?  
That am in love, and cannot tell with whom.   

Poor Collen, grieves that he was late disdained:  
And Cloris, doth for Willy's absence pine.  
Sad Thirsis, weeps, for his sick Phoebe pain.  
But, all their sorrows cannot equal mine.  
A greater care alas, on me is come:  
I am in love, and cannot tell with whom.   

Narcissus-like, did I affect my shade;  
Some shadow yet, I had, to dote upon.  
Or, did I love, some Image of the dead,  
Whose substance had not breathed long agone;  
I might despair, and so an end would come;  
B●t, oh, I love! and cannot tell you whom.   

Once in a Dream, me thought, my Love I viewed;  
But, never waking, could her face behold:  
And doubtless, that Resemblance was but showed,  
That more, my tired heart torment it should.  
For, since that time, more grieved I am become;  
And more in love; I cannot tell with whom.   

When on my bed at night, to rest I lie,  
My watchful eyes, with tears bedew my cheek:  
And then, oh would it once were day, I cry;  
Yet when it comes, I am as far to seek.  
For, who can tell, though all the earth he room;  
Or when, or where, to find he knows not whom?   

Oh! if she be among the beauteous trains,  
Of all you Nymphs, that haunt the silver ●ills;  
Or, if you know her, Ladies of the Plains,  
Or you, that have your Bowers, on the Hills.  
Tell if you can, who will my love become:  
Or I shall die, and never know for whom.    

THe Ladies smiled oft, when this they heard,  
Because the Passion strange to them appeared.  
And stranger was it; since, by his expression,  
(As well as by his own unfeigned confession)  
It seemed true. But, having sung it out:  
And seeing, scarcely manners, they it thought  
To urge him farther, Thus to them he spoke.  
Fair Ladies: for as much as doubt you make  
To re-command me: Of mine own accord,  
Another Strain, I freely will afford.  
It shall not be of Love; nor any Song,  
Which to the praise of Beauty doth belong.  
But, that hereafter, when you hence are gone,  
Your Shepherd may be sometime thought upon.  
To show you also, what content the Field,  
And lovely Grove, to honest Minds may yield.  
That you my humble Fate, may not despise;  
When you return unto your braveries.  
And not suppose, that in these homely Bowers,  
I hug my Fortune, cause I know not yours.  
Such Lines I'll sing, as were composed, by me,  
When some proud Courtiers, where I happed to be,  
Did (like themselves) of their own glories prate;  
As in contempt, of my more happy state.  
And these they be.—   

Sonnet.  

LOrdly Gallants, tell me this,  
(Though my safe content you weigh not)  
In your Greatness what one bliss,  
Have you gained, that I enjoy not?  
You have Honours, you have Wealth,  
I have Peace, and I have Health:  
All the day, I merry make,  
And, at night, no care I take.   

Bound to none, my Fortunes be;  
This, or that man's fall, I fear not:  
Him I love, that loveth me;  
For the rest, a pin I care not.  
You are sad, when others chafe,  
And grow merry as they laugh;  
I, that hate it, and am free,  
Laugh and weep, as pleaseth me.   

You may boast of favours shown,  
Where your service is applied▪  
But, my pleasures are mine own,  
And to no man's humours tied.  
You oft flatter, sooth, and fain,  
I, such baseness do disdain:  
And to none, be slave I would,  
Though my fetters might be gold.   

By great Titles, some believe,  
Highest honours are attained;  
And yet Kings have power to give,  
To their Fools, what these have gained.  
Where they favour, there they may,  
All their Names of Honour lay:  
But, I look not, raised to be,  
Till mine own wing, carry me.   

Seek to raise your Titles higher,  
They are Toys not worth my sorrow:  
Those that we to day admire,  
Prove the Ages scorn to morrow.  
Take your Honours; let me find,  
Virtue, in a freeborn Mind:  
This, the greatest Kings that be,  
Cannot give, nor take from me.   

Though I vainly do not vaunt,  
Large demesnes, to feed my pleasure:  
I have favours where you want,  
That would buy respect with treasure.  
You have lands lie here, and there;  
But my wealth is every where:  
And, this, addeth to my store:  
Fortune, cannot make me poor.   

Say, you purchase with your pelf,  
Some respect, where you importune.  
Those may love me for myself,  
That regard you for your Fortune.  
Rich, or borne of high degree,  
Fools, as well as you may be:  
But, that ●eace, in which I live,  
No Descent, nor Wealth can give.   

If you boast, that you may gain,  
The respect of high-born Beauties:  
Know, I never wooed in vain,  
Nor preferred scorned Duties.  
She ay love, hath all delight;  
Rosie-red, with Lillie-white:  
And, who ere your Mistress be,  
Flesh and Blood as good as She.   

Note, of Me, was never taken,  
For my Woman-like perfections:  
But, so like a man, I look,  
It hath gained me best Affections.  
For my love, as many showers  
Have been wept, as have for yours.  
And, yet none doth me condemn  
For Abuse, or scorning them.   

Though of Dainties, you have store,  
To delight a choicer palate:  
Yet your taste is pleased no more,  
Then is mine in one poor Salad.  
You to please your Senses, feed;  
But, I eat, good Blood to breed.  
And am most delighted than,  
When I spend it like a man.   

Though you Lord it over me,  
You in vain thereof have braved:  
For, those Lusts my Servants be,  
Whereunto your minds are slaved.  
To yourselves you wise appear:  
But alas, deceived you are.  
You do foolish me esteem,  
And are that, which I do seem.   

When your faults I open lay,  
You are moved, and mad with vexing;  
But, you ne'er could do or say,  
Ought to drive me to perplexing.  
Therefore, my despised power  
Greater is, by far, than your.  
And, what ere you think of me,  
In your minds, you poorer be.   

You are pleased, more or less,  
As men well or ill report you;  
And, show discontentedness,  
When the Times forbear to court you.  
That, in which my pleasures be,  
No man can divide from me.  
And, my Care, it adds not to  
What-so, others say, or do.   

Be not proud, because you view,  
You by thousands are attended:  
For alas, it is not You,  
But your Fortune, that's be-friended.  
Where I show of love have go●,  
Such a danger fear I not.  
Since, they nought can seek of me;  
But, for love, beloved to be.   

When your Hearts have every thing,  
You, are pleasantly disposed:  
But, I can both laugh and sing,  
Though my Foes have me enclosed.  
Yea, when dangers ●oe do hemm,  
I delight in scorning them,  
More than you, in your renown;  
Or a King can in his Crown.   

You do bravely domineer,  
Whilst the Sun upon you shineth.  
Yet, if any storm appear,  
Basely then, your mind declineth.  
But, or shine, or rain, or Blow,  
I, my Resolutions know.  
Living, Dying, Thrall, or Free,  
At one height my Mind shall be.   

When in thraldom, I have lain,  
Me, not worth your thought you prized.  
But, your malice was in vain,  
For, your favours, I despised.  
And, how ere you value me,  
ay, with praise, shall thought on be;  
When the world esteems you not,  
And your Names shall be forgot.   

In these thoughts my riches are,  
Now, though poor or mean you deem me;  
I am pleased, and do not care,  
How the Times, or you esteem me.  
For, these Toys that make you gay,  
Are but Play-games for a day.  
And, when Nature craves her due;  
I, as brave shall be, as you,    
HEre Philaret did give his Song an ending,  
To which the Nymphs, so seriously attending,  
About him sat; as if they had supposed,  
He still had somewhat more, to be disclosed.  
And, well they knew not; whether did belong,  
Most praise unto the Shepherd, or his Song.  
For, though (they must confess) they often hear,  
Those Lays, which much more deeply learned are:  
Yet, when they well considered of the Place,  
With how unlikely (in their thought) it was,  
To give them hope of hearing such a Strain;  
Or, that so young, and so obscure a Swain,  
Should, such a matchless Beauty's favour get,  
And know her worth so well, to sing of it.  
They wondered at it. And some thus surmizd,  
That He a greater man was, so disguised:  
Or else, that She, whom he so much had praised  
Some Goddess was: that those his Measures raised,  
Of purpose, to that rare-attained height,  
In Envy's and presuming Art's despite.  
But, whilst they musing, with themselues, bethought  
Which way, out of this Shepherd to have wrought,  
What Nymph this Fair-one was; and where she lived.  
Lo, at that very instant there arrived  
Three men, that by their Habits Courtiers seemed:  
For (though obscure) by some he is esteemed  
Among the greatest: who do not contemn  
In his retired walks, to visit him.  
And there they taste those pleasures of the mind,  
Which they, can nor in Court, nor City find.  
Some news or message, these new guests had brought him,  
And, to make hast away (it seems) besought him.  
For, instantly he rose: And that his nurture,  
Might not be taxed by a rude departure,  
Himself excusing, he those Nymphs did pray:  
His noble Friends might bring them on their way:  
Who, as it seems (he said) were therefore come;  
That they might wait upon them to their home.  
So, with their favour, he departed thence:  
And (as they thought) to meet her Excellence,  
Of whom he sung. Yet many deem that this,  
But an Idea of a MISTRESS is.  
Because to none, he yet had deigned the telling,  
Her proper Name; nor shown her place of Dwelling.  

When he was gone: a Lady from among  
Those Nymphs; took up his Lute, & sung this Song.   

The Nymphs Song.  

GEntle Swain, good speed befall thee;  
And in Love still prosper thou:  
Fu●ure Times shall happy call thee,  
Though, thou lie neglected, now.  
Virtue's Lovers, shall commend thee;  
And perpetual Fame, attend thee.   

Happy are these woody Mountains,  
In whose shadows thou dost hide:  
And as happy, are those Fountains,  
By whose murmurs thou dost bide.  
For, Contents are here excelling;  
More, then in a Prince's dwelling.   

These thy Flocks do clothing bring thee,  
And thy food, out of the Fields:  
Pretty Songs, the Birds do sing thee;  
Sweet perfumes the meadow yields:  
And, what more is worth the seeing?  
Heaven and Earth thy prospect being?   

None comes hither, who denies thee,  
Thy Contentments (for despite)  
Neither any that envies thee,  
That, wherein thou dost delight.  
But, all happy things are meant thee?  
And what ever may content thee.   

Thy Affection Reason measures;  
And distempers none it feeds:  
Still, so harmless are thy pleasures,  
That no others grief it breeds.   

And, if night, beget thee sorrow;  
Seldom stays it, till the morrow.   

Why do foolish men so vainly,  
Seek contentment in their store?  
Since they may perceive so plainly,  
Thou art rich, in being poor?  
And that they are vexed about it;  
Whilst thou merry art without it.   

Why are idle brains devising,  
How high Titles may be gained?  
Since, by those poor toys despising,  
Thou hast higher things obtained?  
For the man who scorns to crave them,  
Greater is, than they that have them.   

If all men could taste that sweetness,  
Thou dost in thy meanness know;  
Kings would be to seek, where Greatness,  
And their honours to bestow.  
For, it such content would breed them;  
As they would not think they need them.   

And, if those who so aspiring,  
To the Court-preferments be;  
Knew how worthy the desiring;  
Those things are, enjoyed by thee.  
Wealth and Titles, would hereafter:  
Subjects be, for scorn and laughter.   

He that Courtly styles affected,  
Should a May-Lords honour have.  
He that heaps of wealth collected,  
Should be counted as a slave.  
And the man with few'st things cumbered,  
With the Noblest should be numbered.   

Thou, their folly hast discerned,  
That neglect thy mind, and thee;  
And to sighed them, thou hast learned,  
Of what Title ere they be.  
That; no more with thee, obtaineth;  
Then with them, thy meannes gaineth.   

All their Riches, Honours, Pleasures;  
Poor unworthy trifles seem;  
(If compared with thy Treasures)  
And, do merit no esteem.  
For, they true contents provide thee;  
And from them can none divide thee.   

Whether thralled, or exiled;  
Whether poor or rich thou be:  
Whether praised, or reviled;  
Not a rush, it is to thee.  
This, nor that, thy rest doth win thee:  
But, the mind, which is within thee.   

Then, oh why, so madly dote we,  
On those things, that us ore-lode?  
Why, no more, their vainness note we;  
But still make of them a God?  
For, alas! they still deceive us;  
And, in greatest need they leave us.   

Therefore, have the Fates provided,  
Well (thou happy Swain) for thee:  
That mayst, here, so far divided,  
From the world's distractions be.  
Thee, distemper let them never;  
But, in peace continue ever.   

In these lonely Groves, enjoy thou,  
That contentment here begun:  
And, thy hours, so pleased, employ thou,  
Till the latest glass be run.  
From a Fortune so assured:  
By no tempt be alured.   

Much good do't them with their glories,  
Who in Courts of Princes dwell.  
We have read in Antique stories,  
How some rose, and how they fell.  
And 'tis worthy well the heeding;  
there's like End, where's like proceeding.   

Be thou; still, in thy affection,  
To thy Noble Mistress, true:  
Let her (never-matcht) perfection,  
Be the same, unto thy view.  
And, let never other Beauty,  
Make thee fail, in Love, or Duty.   

For, if thou shalt not estranged  
From thy Course professed, ●e.  
But remain for aye unchanged;  
Nothing shall have power on thee.  
Those that slight thee now, shall love thee,  
And, in spite of spite, approve thee.   

So those Virtues now neglected,  
To be more esteemed; will come:  
Yea, those Toys so much affected,  
Many shall be wooed from.  
And, the golden Age (deplored)  
Shall, by some, be thought restored.    

THus sang the Nymph: so rarely-well inspired,  
That all the hearers, her brave Strains admired.  
And, as I heard, by some that there attended,  
When this her Song was finished, all was ended.    

A Postscript.  
IF any carp, for that, my youngers' Times,  
Brought forth such idle fruit, as these slight Rymes,  
It is no matter; so they do not swear,  
That they, so ill employed, never were.  
Whilst their Desires (perhaps) they looselier spent;  
I gave my heats of Youth, this better vent.  
And, oft by writing thus, the blood have tamed;  
Which some, with reading wanton Say▪ inflamed.  
Nor care I, though their Censure some have past,  
Because my Songs exceed the Fiddlers Last.  
For, do they think, that I will make my Measures,  
The longer, or the shorter, for their pleasures?  
Or may me, or Curtolize my free Invention;  
Because, Fools weary are, of their attention.  
No; let them know, who do their length contemn,  
I make to please myself, and not for them.   

A Miscellany of Epigrams, Sonnets, Epitaphs, and such other Verses, as were found written, with the Poem, aforegoing.  

Of the Invention of the nine Muses.  
THe Acts of Ages past, doth Clio write.  
The Tragoedie's, Melpomenes delight.  
Thalia, is with Comedies contented.  
E●terpe, first, the Shepherds Pipe invented.  
Terpsichore, doth Song, and Lute apply.  
Dancing Er●to found Geometry.  
Calliop●, on loving Verses dwells.  
The secrets of the Stars, Urania tells.  
Polymnia, with choice words, the speech doth trim.  
And great Apollo shares with all of them.  
Those thrice three Feminines▪ we Mases call;  
But that one Masculine is worth them all.   

Of the Labours of Hercules.  
FIrst, he the strong Nemean Lion slew:  
The manyheaded Hydra next o'erthrew.  
The Eremanthian Boar he thirdly foils:  
Then of his golden Horns the Stag he spoils.  
The foul Stymphalian Birds he fifthly frayed:  
Next, he the Queen of Amazon's oreswayd▪  
Than cleansed Aegeas Stalls, with filth so full:  
And eighthly, tamed the untamed Bull.  
He slew proud Diomedes with his Horses.  
From triple Gerio● his rich Herd he forces.  
He slew the Dragon for the fruit of gold:  
And made black Cerber●● the day behold.  
These were his twelve stout Labours. And they say,  
With fifty Virgins in one night he lay.  
If true it be, 'tis thought he laboured more  
In that one act, then in the twelve before.   

Being 〈◊〉 by a Gentleman in his Dining-room, where was nothing but a Map of England to entertain him, he thus turned it into Verse.  
Fair England in the bosom of the Seas,  
Amid her two and fifty Provinces,  
Sits like a glorious Empress; whose rich Throne,  
Great Nymphs of honour come to wait upon.  
First, in the height of bravery appears  
Kent, East and South, and Middle-Saxon Shires:  
Next, Surry▪ Berkshire, and Southampton get,  
With Dorcet, Wilton, and rich Somerset.  
Then Devon, with the Cornish Promontory:  
Gloster and Worster, fair Sabrinas glory.  
Then Salope, Suffolk, Norfolk large and fair,  
Oxford and Cambridge, that thrice learned pair.  
Then Lincoln, Derby, Yorkshire, Nottingham,  
Northamption, Warwick, Stafford, Buckingham.  
Chester and Lancaster (with Herds well stored)  
Huntingdon, Hartford, Rutland, Hereford.  
Then Princely Durham, Bedford, Leicester, and  
Northumber, Cumber and cold Westmoreland.  
Brave English shires; with whom loved equally  
Welsh Munmouth, Rad●or, and Mountgomery,  
Add all the glory (to her Train) they can:  
So doth Glamorgan, Breckn●●, Cardigan,  
Caernaruan, Denbigh, 〈◊〉- Shire,  
With Anglesey (which o'er the sea doth rear  
Her● lofty head And with the first, though last,  
Flint, Pembroke and Carmarthen might be pla●●.  
For all of these (unto their power) maintain  
Their Mistress England with a royal Train.  
Yea, for Supporters at each hand, hath she  
The Wight and Man, that two brave Lands be.  
From these, I to the Scottish Nymphs had iornyed,  
But that my Friend was back again returned,  
Who having kindly brought me to his home,  
Alone did leave me in his Dining Rome:  
Where I was fain (and glad I had the hap)  
To beg an entertainment of his Map.   

An Epitaph upon the Right Virtuous Lady, the Lady SCOTT.  
LEt none suppose this Relic of the Just,  
as here wrapped up, to perish in the dust.  
No, like best 〈◊〉, her time she fully stood:  
Then being grown in Faith, and ripe in Good;  
(With steadfast hope, that she another day,  
Should rise with Christ) with Death here down she lay.  
And, that each part, which Her, in life had graced,  
Preserved might be, and meet again at last:  
The Poor, the Worl●, the Heavens, and the Grave:  
Her Alms, her Praise, her Soul, her Body have.   

An Epitaph upon a Woman, and her Child, buried together in the same Grave.  
BEneath this Marble Stone doth lie,  
●he Subject of Death's Tyranny.  
A Mother: who in this close Tomb,  
Sleeps with the issue of her womb.  
Though cruelly inclined was he;  
And with the fruit shook down the Tree.  
Yet was his cruelty in vain.  
For, Tree, and Fruit, shall spring again.   

A Christmas Carol.  

SO, now is come our joyfull'st Feast;  
Let every man be jolly.  
Each Room, with Ivy leaves is dressed,  
And every Post, with Holly.  
Though some Churls at our mirth repine,  
Round your foreheads Garlands twine,  
Drown sorrow in a Cup of Wine.  
And let us all be merry.   

Now, all our Neighbours Chimneys smoke,  
And Christmas blocks are burning;  
The, Ovens, they with baked meats choke,  
And all their Spits are turning.  
Without the door, let sorrow lie:  
And, if for cold, it hap to die,  
we'll buried in a Christmas Pye.  
And evermore be merry.   

Now, every Lad is wondrous trimm,  
And no man minds his Labour.  
Our Lasses have provided them,  
A Bagpipe, and a Tabor.  
Young men, and Maids, and Girls & Boys,  
Cive life, to one ano● she joys:  
And, you anon shall by their noise,  
Perceive that they are merry.   

Rank Misers now, do sparing shun:  
Their Hall of Music soundeth:  
And, Dogs, thence with whole shoulders run,  
So, all things there aboundeth.  
The Countreyfolke, themselves advance;  
For Crowdy-Mutton's come out of France:  
And jack shall pipe, and Iyll shall dance,  
And all the Town be merry.   

Ned Swash hath fetched his Bands from pawn,  
And all his best Apparel.  
Brisk Nell hath bought a Ruff of Lawn,  
With droppings of the Barrel.  
And those that hardly all the year  
Had Bread to eat, or Rags to wear,  
Will have both Clothes, and dainty fare:  
And all the day be merry.   

Now poor men to the justices,  
With Capons make their errands,  
And if they hap to fail of these,  
They plague them with their Warrants.  
But now they feed them with good cheer,  
And what they want, they take in Beer:  
For, Christmas comes but once a year:  
And then they shall be merry.   

Good Farmours, in the Country, nurse  
The poor, that else were undone.  
Some Landlords, spend their money worse,  
On Lust, and Pride at London.  
There, the Roisters they do play;  
Drab and Dice their Landt away,  
Which may be ours, another day:  
And therefore le's be merry.   

The Client now his suit forbears,  
The Prisoner's heart is eased.  
The Debtor drinks away his cares,  
And, for the time is pleased.  
Though others Purses be more fat,  
Why should we pine or grieve at that?  
Hang sorrow, care will kill a Cat.  
And therefore le's be merry.   

Hark, how the Wags, abroad do call  
Each other forth to rambling.  
Anon, you'll see them in the Hall,  
For Nuts, and Apples scambling.  
Hark, how the Roofs with laughters sound!  
Anon they'll think the house goes round:  
For, they the Sellars depth have found.  
And, there they will be merry.   

The Wenches with their Wassell-Bowles,  
About the Streets are singing:  
The Boys are come to catch the Owls,  
The Wild-mare, in is bringing.  
Our Kitchin-Boy hath broke his Box,  
And, to the dealing of the Ox,  
Our honest neighbours come by flocks,  
And, here, they will be merry.   

Now Kings and Queens, poor Sheep-cotes have,  
And mate with every body:  
The honest, now, may play the knave,  
And wise men play at Noddy.  
Some Youths will now a Mumming go;  
Some others play at Rowland-hoe,  
And, twenty other Gameboyes more:  
Because they will be merry.   

Then wherefore in these merry days,  
Should we I pray, be duller?  
No; let us sing some Roundelays,  
To make our mirth the fuller.  
And, whilst thus inspired we sing,  
Let all the Streets with echoes ring:  
Woods, and Hills, and every thing,  
Bear witness we are merry.    

An Epitaph upon the Porter of a PRISON.  
HEre lie the bones of him, that was of late,  
A Churlish Porter of a Prison gate.  
Death many an evening at his lodging knocked,  
But could not take him, for the door was locked:  
Yet at a Tavern late one night he found him,  
And getting him, into the seller, drowned him.  
On which, the world (that still the worst is thinking)  
Reports abroad, that he was killed with drinking:  
Yet let no Prisoner, whether Thief or Debtor  
Rejoice, as if his fortune were the better;  
Their sorrows likely to be ne'er the shorter,  
The Warden lives, though death hath took the Porter.   

A Sennet upon a stolen Kiss.  
NOw gentle sleep, hath closed up those eyes,  
Which waking, kept my boldest thoughts in awe:  
And f●eeaccesse unto that sweet lip, lies,  
From whence I long the rosy breath to draw.  
Me thinks no wrong it were, if I should steal  
From those two melting Rubies, one poor kiss:  
None sees the theft, that would the thief reveal,  
Nor rob I her of aught, which she can miss:  
Nay, should I twenty kisses take away,  
There would be little sign I had done so:  
Why then should I this robbery delay?  
Oh! she may wake, and therewith angry grow.  
Well, if she do, I'll back restore that one,  
And twenty hundred thousand more for lone.   

An Epitaph upon Abram Good●fellow, a common Alehouse-hunter.  
BEware, thou look not who here under lies,  
Unless thou long to weep away thine eyes.  
This man (as sorrowful report doth tell us)  
Was, when he lived, the Prince of all Goodfellows.  
That day he died, it cannot be believed,  
How out of reason, all the Alewives grieved,  
And what abominable lamentation  
They made at Black-boy, and at Salutation;  
They hold and cried, and ever more among,  
This was the burden of their woeful Song:  
Well, go thy ways, thy like hath never been,  
Nor shall thy match again be ever seen:  
For out of doubt now thou art dead and gone,  
There's many a Tap house will be quite undone,  
And Death by taking thee, did them more scathe,  
Then yet the Alehouse protect done them hath.  
Lo, such a one but yesterday was he,  
But now he much is altered, you do see.  
Since he came hither, he hath left his riot,  
Yea, changed both his company and diet,  
And now so civil lies; that to your thinking,  
He neither for an Alehouse cares, nor drinking.   

An Epitaph upon a Gentlewoman, who had foretell the Time of her death.  
HEr, who beneath this stone, consuming lies,  
For many Virtues we might memorise.  
But, most of all, the praise deserveth she,  
In making of her Words, and Deeds agree.  
For, she so truly kept the Word she spoke,  
As that with Death, she promise would not break.  
I shall (quoth she) be dead, before the mid  
Of such a Month. And, as she said, she did.   

An Epitaph, on a Child, Son to Sir W. H. Knight.  
HEre lies, within a Cabinet of stone,  
The dear remainder of a Prety-one.  
Who did in wit, his years so far outpass,  
His parents Wonder, and their joy he was.  
And, by his face, you might have deemed him,  
To be on earth some heavenly Cheruh●m.  
Six years with life he laboured. Then deceased,  
To keep the Sabbath of eternal rest.  
So; that, which many thousand able men,  
Are labouring for, till threescore years and ten.  
This blessed Child attained to, ere seven;  
And, now enjoys it with the Saints of Heaven.   

A Song.  

NOw Youngman, thy days and thy glories appear,  
Like Sunshine and blossoms in Spring of the year.  
Thy vigour of body, thy spirits, thy wit,  
Are perfect, and sound, and untroubled yet.  
Now then, oh, now then, if safety thou love.  
Mind thou, oh mind thou, thy Maker above.   

Misspend not a morning, so excellent clear;  
Never (for ever) was happiness ne'er.  
Thy noontide of life hath but little delight,  
And sorrows on sorrows will follow at night.  
Now then, oh, now then, etc.  
Mind thou, oh mind thou, etc.   

That Strength, & those Beauties that grace thee to day,  
To morrow, may perish, and vanish away.  
Thy Wealth, or thy Pleasures, or Friends that now be,  
May waste, or deceive, or be traitors to thee.  
Now then, oh now then, etc.  
Mind thou, oh mind thou, etc.   

Thy joints are yet nimble, thy sinews unslacke.  
And marrow unwasted, doth strengthen thy back.  
Thy Youth from diseases preserveth the brain;  
And blood with free passage, plumps enury vain.  
Now then, oh now then, etc.  
Mind thou, oh mind thou, etc.   

But (trust me) it will not for ever be so;  
Those Arms that are mighty, shall feebler grow.  
And those Legs, so proudly supporting thee, now,  
With Age, or Diseases, will stagger and bow.  
Now then, oh now then, etc.  
Mind thou, oh mind thou, etc.   

Then, all those rare Features, now graceful in thee;  
Shall (ploughed with Time's furrows) quite ruined be.  
And they, who admired, and loved thee so much,  
Shall loathe, or forget thou hadst ever been such.  
Now then, oh now then, etc.  
Mind thou, oh mind thou, etc.   

Those tresses of Hair, which thy youth do adorn,  
Will look like the Meads in a Winterly morn.  
And, where red and white intermixed did grow,  
Dull paleness, a deadly complexion will show.  
Now then, oh now then, etc.  
Mind thou, oh mind thou, etc.   

That Forehead imperious, whereon we now view,  
A smoothness, and whiteness enamelled with blue;  
Will lose that perfection, which Touth now maintains,  
And change it for hollowness, wrinkles, and stains.  
Now then, oh now then, etc.  
Mind thou; oh mind thou, etc.   

Those Ears, thou with Music didst oft entertain,  
And charm with so many a delicate Strain;  
May miss of those pleasures, wherewith they are fed,  
And never hear Song more, when youth is once fled.  
Now then, oh now then, etc.  
Mind thou, oh mind thou, etc.   

Those Eyes, which so many, so much did admire,  
And with strange affections set thousands on fire:  
Shut up in that darkness, which Age will constrain,  
Shall never see mortal; no, never again.  
Now then, oh now then, etc.  
Mind thou, oh mind thou, etc.   

Those Lips, whereon Beauty, so fully discloses,  
The colour and sweetness of Rubies, and Roses;  
Instead of that hue, will ghastliness wear,  
And none shall believe, what perfection was there.  
Now then, oh now then, etc.   

Thy Teeth, that stood firmly, like Pearls in a row,  
Shall rotten, and scattered disorderly grow:  
The Mouth, whose proportion earths-wonder was thought,  
Shall robbed of that sweetness, be prized at nought.  
Now then, oh now then, etc.   

That Gate, and those Gestures, that win thee such grace,  
Will turn to a feeble and staggering pace.  
And thou, that o'er mountains ranst nimbly to day;  
Shalt stumble at every rub in the way.  
Now then, oh now then, etc.  
Mind then, oh mind then, etc.   

By these imperfections▪ old age will prevail,  
Thy marrow, thy sinews, and spirits will fail.  
And nothing is left thee, when those are once spent,  
To give▪ or thyself; or another, content.  
Now then, oh now then, etc.  
Mind thou, oh mind thou, etc.   

Those Fancies that lull thee, with Dreams of delight,  
Will trouble thy quiet, the comfortless night,  
And thou, that now sleepest thy troubles away,  
Shalt hear, how each Cockerel gives warning of day.  
Now then, oh now then, etc.  
Mind thou, oh mind thou, etc.   

Then, Thou, that art yet unto thousands so dear,  
Of all shal● despised, or neglected appear.  
Which, when thou perceiv'st (though now pleasant it be)  
Thy life will be grievous and loathsome to thee.  
Now then, oh now then, etc.  
Mind thou, oh mind thou, etc.   

That lust, which thy youth can so hardly forgo,  
Will leave thee; and leave thee, repentance, and woe.  
And then, in thy ●olly no joy thou canst have,  
Nor hope other rest, than a comfortless grau●.  
Now then, oh now then, etc.  
Mind thou, oh mind thou, etc.   

For, next shall thy Breath be quite taken away,  
Thy Flesh turned to dust, and that dust turned to clay:  
And, those thou hast loved, and share of thy store,  
Shall leave thee, forget thee, and mind thee no more.  
Now then, oh, now then, etc.  
Mind thou, oh mind thou, etc.   

And yet, if in time thou remember not this,  
The slenderest part of thy sorrow it is:  
Thy Soul to a torture, more fearful shall wend,  
Hath ever, and ever, and never an end.  
Now then, oh, now then, if safety thou love.  
Mind thou, oh mind thou, thy Maker above.    

A Dream.  

WHen bright Phoebus at his rest,  
Was reposed in the West,  
And the cheerful daylight gone,  
Drew unwelcome darkness on;  
Night, her blackness, wrapped about me,  
And, within, 'twas as without me.   

Therefore, on my tumbled bed,  
Down I laid my troubled head:  
Where, mine eyes inur'd to care,  
Seldom used to slumbering were.  
Yet, or ' etyred of late, with weeping;  
Then, by chance, they fell a sleeping.   

But, such Visions me diseased,  
As in vain, that sleep I ceased:  
For, I sleeping Fancies had,  
Which, yet waking, make me sad.  
Some, can sleep away their sorrow;  
But, mine doubles, every morrow.   

Walking to a pleasant Grove,  
(Where, I used to think of Love)  
I, me thought, a place did view,  
Wherein Flora's riches grew.  
Primrose, Hyacinth, and Lilies,  
Cowslips, Vy'lets, Daffodillies.   

There, a Fountain, close beside,  
I, a matchless Beauty spied.  
So she lay, as if she slept:  
But, much grief, her waking kept.  
And, she had no softer pillow,  
Then the hard root of a Willow.   

Down her Cheeks, the tears did flow,  
(Which a grieved heart did show)  
Her fair eyes, the earth beholding,  
And, her arms themselves enfolding;  
She, her passion to betoken,  
Sighed, as if her heart were broken.   

So much grief, me thought she showed,  
That my sorrow it renewed:  
But, when nearer her I went,  
It increased my discontent.  
For a gentle Nymph she proved,  
Who, me (long unknown) had loved.   

Straight, on me she fixed her look;  
Which, a deep impression took.  
And, of all that live (quoth she)  
Thou art welcomest o me.  
Then (misdoubting to be blamed)  
Thus, she spoke, as half ashamed.   

Thee, unknown, I long affected,  
And, as long, in vain expected.  
For, I had a hopeful thought,  
Thou wouldst crave, what others sought;  
And I, for thy sake, have stayed,  
Many wanton Springs, a Maid.   

Still, when any wooed me,  
They renewed, the thought of thee:  
And, in hope thou wouldst have tried  
Their Affections, I denied.  
But, a Lover, forced upon me,  
By my Friends, hath now undone me.   

What, I waking dared not show,  
In a Dream, thou now dost know:  
But, to better my estate;  
Now, alas, it is too late.  
And, I both awake, and sleeping,  
Now, consume my Youth in weeping.   

Somewhat then, I would have said;  
But, replyings were denayed.  
For, me thought, when speak I would,  
Not a word bring forth I could,  
And, as I a kiss was taking;  
That I lost to, by awaking.    

Certain Verses written to his loving Friend, upon his departure.  
SWift Time, that will by no entreaty stay,  
Is now gone by, and summons me away.  
And, what my grief, denies my tongue to do,  
My true affection drives my pen unto.  
Dear Heart; that day, and that sad hour is come,  
In which, thy face I must be banished from:  
And go to live, where (peradventure) we  
Hereafter must, for aye, divided be.  
For, 'twixt our bodies, which now close are met,  
A thousand Hills and Valleys shall be set:  
A thousand Groves, a thousand weeping Springs,  
And many thousand other envious things,  
Which, when we are departed, keep us may,  
From coming nearer, till our dying day.  
So these our hands, which thus each other touch,  
Shall never after this time do so much.  
Nor shall these eyes, which yet themselves delight,  
(with mutual gazing on each other light)  
Be ever raised up again, so near,  
To view each other in their proper sphere.  
Nor ere again, through those their Crystal orbs,  
Read what sad passion, our poor hearts disturbs.  
Which when we think upon, we scarce contain,  
Their swelling Floodgates; but a pearly rain  
Drops from those plenteous Springs: & forth are sent  
From those sad dungeons, where our hearts are penned,  
So many sighs; that, in our parting, now,  
A storm of Passions we must venture through.  
Whose fury, I would stay to see o'erpast  
Before I went, in spite of all my haste,  
But that, I view some tokens, which foretell,  
That by delay, the Floods will high swell;  
And, whilst to be divided, we are loath,  
With some worse peril, overwhelm us both.  
Oh! rather let us wisely undergo  
A sorrow, that will daily lesser grow▪  
Then venture on a pleasing mischief, which  
Will unawares, our honest hearts bewitch:  
And bring us to such pass (at last) that we  
Shall ne'er perceive it, till undone we be.  
I find your love; and so the same approve,  
That I shall ever love you, for that love.  
And, am so covetous of such dear pelf,  
That, for it, I could give away myself.  
And yet, I rather would go pine, and die,  
For want thereof; then live till you, or I,  
Should give, or take, one dram of that delight  
Which is another's; and so, mar outright  
Our most unstained affection: which, hath yet  
No inclination unto ill, in it.  
Nay (though it more unsufferable were)  
I would, e'en that just liberty forbear  
Which honest friendship is allowed to take:  
If I perceived, it me unapt did make,  
To master my affections: or to go  
On those affairs, that Reason calls me to.  
Those Parents that discreet in loving be,  
When on their newborn child a Wen they see,  
Which may (perchance) in aftertime, disgrace  
The sweet proportion of a lovely face:  
(Although it wound their souls to hear the moan,  
And see the tortures of their pretty one)  
To weep a little, rather are content,  
Whilst he endures the Surgeon's Instrument;  
Then suffer that soul blemish there, to spread;  
Until his face be quite disfigured.  
So, we betwixt whose souls, there is begot  
That sweet Babe, Friendship; must beware, no spot  
Through our indulgent indiscretion grow,  
That may the beauty of our love o'erthrow:  
Let's rather bear a little discontent;  
And learn of Reason, those things to prevent  
Which mar affection. That our friendship may  
Wax firmer, and more lovely every Day.  
There is, indeed, to gentle hearts, no smarting,  
That is more torment to them, then departing  
From those they love. And doubtless, if that we  
Were so united, as the married be;  
Our bodies at our parture, would be so,  
As if each of them 〈◊〉 a ●oule forgo.  
But, in our flesh; we are, and must remain  
Perpetual strangers: and ourselves contain  
From that embrace, which marriage love allows:  
Or else, I injure virtue; you, your vows.  
And, for a short unworthy pleasure, mar  
Those rich contentments, which eternal are.  
Of which, I am in hope, that, always we  
Should in each others presence guiltless be.  
But in our absence (sure I am) we shall  
Not only still be innocent of all,  
That simple folly, and that oversight,  
To which, our many frailties tempt us might:  
But, by this means shall also scape the blot,  
Wherewith i● tongues our names would seek to spot.  
Which if you fear, and would avoid the wrongs  
That may befall you by malicious tongues,  
Then seek my absence: for I have in that  
Unto my friends, been too unfortunate:  
Yet, as I love faire-virtue, there is no man  
Ere heard me boast the favours of a woman  
To her dishonour; neither (by my soul)  
Was I ere guilty of an Act so foul,  
As some imagine. Neither do I know  
That woman yet, with whom I might be so;  
For never kindnesses to me were showed,  
Which I dared think, for evil end bestowed.  
Nor ever, to this present hour, did I  
Turn friendship, favour, opportunity;  
(Or aught vouchsafed me) thereby to acquire  
Those wicked ends which 〈◊〉 do desire.  
For, whensoever lust begun to flame,  
It was extinguished, by true love, and shame.  
But, what would this my innocence prevail,  
When your fair Name, 〈◊〉 should assail?  
And how abhorred should I hereafter be,  
If you should suffer infamy by me?  
You fear it not one half so much you say,  
As you are loath I should depart away:  
And hap what will, you think to be content,  
Whilst I am here; and you still innocent.  
Indeed, those friends approve I not, which may  
By every slanderous tongue be talked away:  
But yet, I like not him that will not strive,  
As much as in him lieth, free to live,  
From giving just occasions of offence:  
For, else he vainly brags of innocence.  
And so do we, unless, that without blame  
We purpose with our love, to keep our fame.  
Then, let us pleased part; and though the dearness  
Of our affection, covets both a nearness  
In mind and body; let us willingly  
Beget a Virtue of necessity.  
And, since we must compelled be to live,  
By time and place divided; let us strive  
In the despite of time and distance, so  
That love of virtue may more perfect grow:  
And that this separation, we lament,  
May make our meeting fuller of content.  
Betwixt our bodies (this I'll not deny)  
There is a dear respective sympathy;  
Which makes us mutually both joy, and grieve  
As there is cause. And farther, I believe,  
That our contentment is imperfect, till  
They have each other in possession still:  
But, that which in us two, I Love, dare name,  
Is 'twixt our Souls; and such a powerful flame,  
As nothing shall extinguish nor obscure,  
Whilst their eternal substance, doth endure:  
No, not our absence; nor that mighty space,  
Betwixt my home, and your abiding place.  
For, ere your Eyes, my eyes had ever seen;  
When many thousand furlongs lay between,  
Our unknown bodies: And before that you  
Had seen my face, or thought the same to view,  
You most entirely loved me (you say)  
Which shows our souls had then found out the way,  
To know each other: And unseen of us,  
To make our bodies meet vnthought of, thus.  
Then; much less now, shall hill, or dale, or grove,  
Or, that great tract of ground which must remove  
My body from you: there, my soul confine,  
To keep it back from yours: or yours from mine.  
Nay, being more acquainted than they were,  
And active spirits, that can any where  
Within a moment meet. They to and fro,  
Will every minute to each other go  
And, we shall love, with that dear love, wherein  
Will neither be offence, nor cause of sin.  
Yea, whereas carnal love, is ever colder,  
As youth decays; and as the flesh grows older:  
And, when the body is dissolved, must  
Be buried with oblivion in the dust.  
We, then shall dearer grow: and this our love,  
Which now imperfect is, shall perfect prove.  
For, there's no mortal power can rob true Friends,  
Of that which noblest Amity attends.  
Nor any separation that is able,  
To make the virtuous Lovers miserable.  
Since, when disasters threaten most dejection,  
Their, Goodness maketh strongest their affection.  
And, that which works in others loves, denial;  
In them, more noble makes it, by the trial.  
'tis true; that when we part, we know not whether  
These bodies shall, for ever, meet together;  
As you have said. Yet, wherefore should we grieve,  
Since, we a better meeting do believe?  
If we did also know, that when we die,  
This love, should perish everlastingly.  
And that we must as brutish creatures do,  
Lose with our bodies, all our dearness to:  
Our separation, then, a sorrow were,  
Which mortal heart had never power to bear.  
And we should faint and die, to think upon  
The passions would be felt, when I were gone.  
But, seeing in the soul, our love is placed;  
And (seeing) souls of death shall never taste:  
No Death can end our love. Nay; when we die,  
Our souls (that now in chains and fettters lie)  
Shall meet more freely, to partake that joy,  
Compared to which, our friendship's but a toy.  
And, for each bitterness, in this our love,  
We shall a thousand sweet contentments prove.  
Mean while; we, that (together living) may  
Through humane weaknesses be led astray:  
(And unawares, make that affection foul,  
Which virtue yet keeps blameless in the soul)  
By Absence shall preserved be, as clean,  
As to be kept (in our best thoughts) we mean.  
And, in our Prayers for each other, shall  
Give, and receive more kindnesses, than all  
The world can yield us. And, when other men  
Whose love is carnal, are tormented, when  
Death calls them hence: because they rob be  
Of all their hope (for evermore) to see  
The object of their Love: we shall avoid,  
That bitter anguish wherewith they are cloyed.  
And, whensoe'er it happens, thou, or I,  
Shall feel the time approaching us to dye;  
It shall not grieve us at our latest breath,  
To mind each other on the bed of death:  
(Because of any oversight, or sin,  
Whereof we guilty in our souls have been)  
Nor will death fear us, cause we shall perceive  
That these contentments, which we had not leave  
To take now we are living; shall be gained,  
When our imprisoned souls shall be unchaind.  
Nay rather wish to dye, we might possess  
The sweet fruition of that happiness,  
Which we shall then receive, in the perfection  
Of Him, that is the fullness of Affection.  
If Time prevented not, I had in store  
To comfort thee, so many Reasons more,  
That thou wouldst leave to grieve; although we should  
Each others persons never more behold.  
But, there is hope. And then, that know you may,  
True Friends can in their absence find the way.  
To compass their contentments, whom they love:  
You shall ere long, the power it hath, approve.  
Mean while, you still are dear: yea, live or dye,  
My soul shall love you everlastingly.  
And howe'er, there seem such cause of sorrow;  
Yet, those that part, and think to meet to morrow,  
Death may divide to night; And, as before,  
Their Fear was less, their Grief will be the more.  
Since therefore, whether far I live, or nigh,  
There is in meeting an uncertainty.  
Let us, for that which surest is, provide.  
Part like those Friends, whom nothing can divide:  
And, since we Lover's first became, that we,  
Might to our power each others comfort be:  
Let's not the sweetness of our love destroy;  
But, turn these weep into tears of joy.  
On which condition, I do give thee, this;  
To be both Mine, and Sorrows parting-kisse.  
PHIL'ARETE.  
FINIS.    

The Stationer's Postscript.  
THere be three or four Songs in this Poem aforegoing, which were stolen from the Author, and heretofore impertinently imprinted in an imperfect and erroneous Copy, foolishly entitled His Works; which the Stationer hath there falsely affirmed to be Corrected and Augmented for his own Advantage; and without the said Authors knowledge, or respect to his credit. If therefore you have seen them formerly in those counterfeit Impressions, let it not be offensive that you find them again in their proper places; and in the Poem to which they appertain.  
Vale. I. M.