I, smiling, ask'd them what they did, Who told me they had drawn a thred They shew'd me then how fine 'twas spun, And I reply'd thereto; I care not now how soon 'tis done, SORROWES SUCCEED. WHEN one is past, another care we have, CHERRY-PIT. JULIA and I did lately sit, Playing for sport, at cherry-pit: She threw ; I cast; and having thrown, I got the pit, and she the stone. TO ROBIN RED-BREST. Laid out for dead, let thy last kindnesse be Sing thou my dirge, sweet-warbling chorister. DISCONTENTS IN DEVON. MORE discontents I never had, Since I was born, then here; Yet, justly too, I must confesse, TO HIS PATERNALL COUNTREY. O EARTH! earth! earth! heare thou my voice, and be Banish'd from thee I live, ne'r to return, CHERRIE-RIPE. CHERRIE-RIPE, ripe, ripe, I cry, Full and faire ones; come, and buy: If so be you ask me where They doe grow? I answer, there, Where my Julia's lips doe smile, yeere where cherries grow. D TO HIS MISTRESSES. PUT on your silks; and, piece by piece, While other gums their sweets perspire, TO ANTHEA. Now is the time when all the lights wax dim; Where, though thou see'st not, thou may'st think upon Me, when thou yeerly go'st procession; Or, for mine honour, lay me in that tombe In which thy sacred reliques shall have roome ; For my embalming, sweetest, there will be No spices wanting when I'm laid by thee. THE VISION TO ELECTRA. I DREAM'D We both were in a bed Of roses, almost smothered; The warmth and swetnes had me there But that I heard thy sweeth breath say, I kist thee, panting, and I call Night to the record, that was all. But, ah! if empty dreames so please, DREAMES. HERE we are all by day; by night w'are hurl'd By dreames, each one into a sev'rall world. AMBITION. IN man, Ambition is the common'st thing; HIS REQUEST TO JULIA. JULIA, if I chance to die Better 'twere my book were dead, MONEY GETS THE MASTERIE. FIGHT thou with shafts of silver, and o'ercome When no force else can get the masterdome. THE SCAR-FIRE. WATER, water, I desire, Here's a house of flesh on fire; Ope' the fountains and the springs, And come all to buckittings: What ye cannot quench, pull downe, Spoile a house to save a towne. Better 'tis that one shu'd fall, UPON SILVIA, A MISTRESSE. WHEN Some shall say, faire once my Silvia was; CHEERFULNESSE IN CHARITIE; OR, THE SWEET SACRIFICE. 'Tis not a thousand bullocks thies, Can please those heavenly deities; If the vower don't express In his offering, cheerfulness. |