Tell faith it's fled the city, So when thou hast, as I Commanded thee, done blabbing; Although to give the lie Deserves no less than stabbing; Yet stab at thee who will, No stab the soul can kill. The Nymph's Reply to the passionate Shepherd. If that the world and love were young, But time drives flocks from field to fold, The flowers do fade, and wanton fields Thy gowns, thy shoes, thy beds of roses, Thy cup, thy kirtle, and thy posies, Soon break, soon wither, soon forgotten, In folly ripe, in reason rotten. Thy belt of straw, and ivy buds, But could youth last, and love still breed, Had joys no date-nor age no need, Then these delights my mind might move To live with thee and be thy love. DULCINA. As at noon Dulcina rested In her sweet and shady bower, Came a shepherd, and requested In her lap to sleep an hour. But from her look A wound he took So deep, that for a further boon The nymph he prays: Whereto she says, Forego me now, come to me soon. But in vain she did conjure him To depart her presence so, Having a thousand tongues t' allure him, And but one to bid him go. When lips invite, And eyes delight, And cheeks as fresh as rose in June, Persuade delay What boots to say, Forego me now, come to me soon? He demands, what time for pleasure Improves delight; Which she denies; night's murky noon. In Venus' plays Makes bold (she says); Forego me now, come to me soon. But what promise or profession From his hands could purchase scope? Who would sell the sweet possession Of such beauty for a hope? Of lingering night Forego the present joys of noon? Tho' ne'er so fair Her speeches were, Forego me now, come to me soon. How at last agreed these lovers ? She was fair, and he was young; The tongue may tell what th' eye Joys unseen are never sung. Did she consent Or he relent, discovers, Accepts he night, or grants she noon, Left he her a maid Or not, she said THE SILENT LOVER. PASSIONS are liken'd best to floods and streams; The shallow murmur, but the deep are dumb: So, when affections yield discourse, it seems The bottom is but shallow whence they come. They that are rich in words, must needs discover, They are but poor in that which makes a lover. Wrong not, sweet mistress of my heart, The merit of true passion, With thinking that he feels no smart Since if my plaints were not t' approve It comes not from defect of love, For, knowing that I sue to serve, I rather choose to want relief, |