Ah! woe is me, woe, woe is me,
Alack, and well-a-day!
For pitty, sir, find out that bee,
Which bore my love away.
Ile seek him in your bonnet brave;
Ile seek him in your eyes;
Nay, now I think th'ave made his grave
I' th' bed of strawburies.
Ile seek him there; I know, ere this,
The cold, cold earth doth shake him ;
But I will go, or send a kisse
By you, sir, to awake him.
Pray hurt him not; though he be dead,
He knowes well who do love him ;
And who with green turfes reare his head,
And who do rudely move him.
He's soft and tender, pray take heed,
With bands of cow-slips bind him,
And bring him home; but 'tis decreed,
That I shall never find him.
TO SPRINGS AND FOUNTAINS.
I HEARD
ye co'd coole heate; and came
With hope you would allay the same;
Thrice I have washt, but feel no cold,
Nor find that true which was foretold.
Methinks, like mine, your pulses beat,
And labour with unequall heat;
Cure, cure your selves, for I descrie
Ye boil with love as well as I.
UPON JULIA'S UNLACING HER SELF.
TELL, if thou canst, and truly, whence doth come
This camphire, storax, spiknard, galbanum ;
These musks, these ambers, and those other smells,
Sweet as the vestrie of the oracles.
Ile tell thee; while my Julia did unlace
Her silken bodies but a breathing space,
The passive aire such odour then assum'd,
As when to Jove great Juno goes perfum❜d ;
Whose pure immortal body doth transmit
A scent, that fills both heaven and earth with it.
TO BACCHUS, A CANTICLE.
WHITHER dost thou whorry me,
Bacchus, being full of thee?
This way, that way, that way, this,
Here and there a fresh love is;
That doth like me, this doth please:
Thus a thousand mistresses
I have now; yet I alone
Having all, injoy not one.
WO'D I see lawn, clear as the heaven, and thin?
It sho'd be onely in my Julia's skin;
Which so betrayes her blood, as we discover
The blush of cherries when a lawn's cast over.
THE FRANKINCENSE.
WHEN my off'ring next I make,
Be thy hand the hallowed cake;
And thy brest the altar, whence
Love may smell the frankincense.
UPON PATRICK, A FOOTMAN. EPIG.
Now, Patrick, with his footmanship has done, His eyes and ears strive which sho'd fastest run.
UPON BRIDGET. EPIG.
Or foure teeth onely Bridget was possest; Two she spat out, a cough forc't out the rest.
I'm sick of love; O let me lie
Under your shades, to sleep or die !
Either is welcome; so I have
Or here my bed, or here my grave.
Why do you sigh, and sob, and keep
Time with the tears that I do weep?
Say, have ye sence, or do you prove
What crucifixions are in love?
I know ye do; and that's the why
You sigh for love as well as I.
A PASTORALL SUNG TO THE KING.
Montano, Silvio, and Mirtillo, Shepheards.
Mon. BAD are the times. Sil. And wors then they
Mon. Troth, bad are both; worse fruit, and ill the tree:
The feast of shepheards fail. Sil. None crowns the cup
Of wassaile now, or sets the quintell up:
And he, who us'd to leade the country round,
Youthfull Mirtillo, here he comes, grief drown'd.
Ambo. Lets cheer him up. Sil. Behold him weeping
Mirt. Ah, Amarillis! farewell mirth and pipe;
Since thou art gone, no more I mean to play
To these smooth lawns, my mirthfull roundelay.
Dear Amarillis! Mon. Hark! Sil. Mark! Mirt. This
Where, Amarillis, thou didst set thy feet.
Ambo. Poor pittied youth! Mirt. And here the breth
And sheep grew more sweet by that breth of thine.
This flock of wool, and this rich lock of hair,
This ball of cowslips, these she gave me here.
Sil. Words sweet as love itself. Mon. Hark!
Mirt. This way she came, and this way too she went; How each thing smells divinely redolent!
Like to a field of beans, when newly blown,
Or like a medow being lately mown.
Mon. A sweet sad passion
Mirt. In dewie mornings, when she came this way,
Sweet bents wode bow, to give my love the day;
And when at night she folded had her sheep,
Daysies wo'd shut, and closing, sigh and weep.
Besides (Ai me !) since she went hence to dwell,
The voice's daughter, nea'r spake syllable.
But she is gone. Sil. Mirtillo, tell us whether?
Mirt. Where she and I shall never meet together.
Mon. Fore-fend it Pan; and Pales, do thou please
To give an end. Mirt. To what? Sil. Such griefs
as these.
Mirt. Never, O never! Still I may
The wound I suffer, never find a cure.
Mon. Love, for thy sake, will bring her to these
And dales again. Mirt. No, I will languish still;
And all the while my part shall be to weepe;
And with my sighs call home my bleating sheep;
And in the rind of every comely tree
Ile carve thy name, and in that name kisse thee.
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