Then shall thy name through all my verse be spread,
Thick as the flowers in meadows lie,

And, when in future times they shall be read
(As sure, I think, they will not die)
If any critic doubt that they be mine,

Men by that stamp shall quickly know the coin.

Meanwhile I will not dare to make a name
To represent thee by ;

Adam (God's nomenclator) could not frame
One that enough should signify:
Astrea or Celia as unfit would prove
For thee, as 'tis to call the Deity Jove.

WEEPING.

SEE where she sits, and in what comely wise
Drops tears more fair than others' eyes.
Ah, charming maid! let not ill-fortune see
The' attire thy sorrow wears,

Nor know the beauty of thy tears;
For she'll still come to dress herself in thee.

As stars reflect on waters, so I

spy

In every drop, methinks, her eye.

The baby, which lives there, and always plays In that illustrious sphere,

Like a Narcissus does appear,

Whilst in his flood the lovely boy did gaze.

Ne'er yet did I behold so glorious weather,
As this sunshine and rain together.

Pray Heaven her forehead, that pure hill of snow, (For some such fountain we must find,

To waters of so fair a kind)

Melt not, to feed that beauteous stream below!

Ah, mighty Love! that it were inward heat
Which made this precious limbec sweet!
But what, alas! ah, what does it avail,
That she weeps tears so wondrous cold.
As scarce the ass's hoof can hold,
So cold, that I admire they fall not hail.

DISCRETION.

DISCREET! what means this word discreet?
A curse on all discretion!

This barbarous term you will not meet
In all Love's lexicon.

Jointure, portion, gold, estate,

Houses, household-stuff, or land (The low conveniencies of Fate), Are Greek no lovers understand.

Believe me, beauteous one! when love
Enters into a breast,

The two first things it does remove
Are friends and interest.

Passion's half blind, nor can endure
The careful, scrupulous eyes;
Or else I could not love, I'm sure,
One who in love were wise.

Men in such tempests toss'd about,
Will, without grief or pain,
Cast all their goods and riches out,
Themselves their port to gain.

As well might martyrs, who do choose
That sacred death to take,

Mourn for the clothes which they must lose,
When they're bound naked to the stake.

THE WAITING MAID.

THY Maid! ah! find some nobler theme
Whereon thy doubts to place;
Nor by a low suspect blaspheme
The glories of thy face.

Alas! she makes thee shine so fair,

So exquisitely bright,

That her dim lamp must disappear
Before thy potent light.

Three hours each morn in dressing thee

Maliciously are spent ;

And make that beauty tyranny,

That's else a civil government.

The' adorning thee with so much art
Is but a barbarous skill;

'Tis like the poisoning of a dart
Too apt before to kill.

The ministering angels none can see ;
"Tis not their beauty' or face,
For which by men they worshipp'd be ;
But their high office and their place,
Thou art my Goddess, my Saint she;
I pray to her, only to pray to thee.

COUNSEL.

АH! what advice can I receive!
No, satisfy me first;

For who would physic-potions give
To one that dies with thirst?

A little puff of breath, we find,
Small fires can quench and kill;
But, when they're great, the adverse wind
Does make them greater still.

Now whilst you speak, it moves me much,
But straight I'm just the same;
Alas! the' effect must needs be such
Of cutting through a flame.

THE CURE.

COME, doctor! use thy roughest art,
Thou canst not cruel prove;
Cut, burn, and torture every part,
To heal me of my love.

There is no danger, if the pain

Should me to a fever bring; Compared with heats I now sustain, A fever is is so cool a thing

(Like drink which feverish men desire)

That I should hope 'twould almost quench my fire,

THE SEPARATION.

Ask me not what my love shall do or be (Love, which is soul to body, and soul of me!) When I am separated from thee;

Alas! I might as easily show, What after death the soul will do ;

"Twill last, I'm sure, and that is all we know.

The thing call'd soul will never stir nor move
But all that while a lifeless carcass prove;
For 'tis the body of my love:
Not that my love will fly away,
But still continue; as, they say,
Sad troubled ghosts about their

graves

do stray.

THE TREE.

I CHOSE the flourishing'st tree in all the park, With freshest boughs and fairest head;

I cut my love into his gentle bark,

And in three days, behold! 'tis dead: My very written flames so violent be,

They've burnt and wither'd up the tree.

How should I live myself, whose heart is found Deeply graven every where

With the large history of many a wound,

Larger than thy trunk can bear?

With art as strange as Homer in the nut,
Love in my heart has volumes put.