CUPID all his arts did prove
To invite my heart to love;
But I always did delay
His mild summons to obey,
Being deaf to all his charms.
Straight the god assumes his arms:
With his bow and quiver, he
Takes the field to duel me.
Armed like Achilles, I
With my fhield alone defy
His bold challenge; as he caft
His golden darts, I as fast
Catched his arrows in my shield,
Till I made him leave the field:
Fretting and disarmed then,
The angry god returns agen
All his flames; ftead of a dart,
Throws himself into my heart:
Useless I my field require,
When the fort is all on fire;
I in vain the field did win,
Now the enemy's within.
Thus betrayed, at last I cry,
Love, thou haft the victory.
TO THE INCONSTANT CYNTHIA.
TELL me once, dear, how it does prove
That I so much fors-worn could be?
I never swore always to love,
I only vowed still to love thee.
And art thou now what thou wert then,
Unsworn unto by other men?
In thy fair breast, and once-fair soul,
I thought my vows were writ alone;
But others' oaths so blurred the scroll,
That I no more could read my own.
And am I still obliged to pay,
When had thrown the bond away?
Nor must we only part in joy,
Our tears as well must be unkind:
Weep you, that could such truth destroy,
And I that could such falseness find.
Thus we must unconcerned remain
In our divided joys and pain.
Yet we may love, but on this different score,
You, what I am, I, what you were before.
COME, Somnus, with thy potent charms,
And seize this captive in thy arms;
And sweetly drop on every sense
Thy soul-refreshing influence.
His fight, smell, hearing, touch, and taste,
Unto thy peace do thou bind fast.
On working brains, at school all day,
At night thou dost bestow a play;
And troubled minds thou doft set free;
Thou mak'ft both friends and foes agree:
All are alike, who live by breath,
In thee, and in thy brother Death.
LADIES, though to your conquering eyes
Love owes his chiefeft victories,
And borrows those bright arms from you
With which he does the world subdue;
Yet you yourselves are not above
The empire nor the griefs of love.
Then rack not lovers with disdain,
Left Love on you revenge their pain;
You are not free because you're fair,
The boy did not his mother spare;
Though beauty be a killing dart,
It is no armour for the heart.
SIR GEORGE ETHEREGE.
TELL me not of a face that's fair,
Nor lip nor cheek that's red;
Nor of the trees of her hair,
Nor curls in order laid:
Nor of a rare seraphic voice,
That like an angel fings:
Though if I were to take my choice,
I would have all these things.
But if thou wilt have me love,
And it must be a fhe,
The only argument can move,
Is, that he will love me.
The glories of your ladies be
But metaphors of things;
And but resemble what we see
Each common object brings.
Roses out-red their lips and cheeks,
Lilies their whiteness flain:
What fool is he that shadows seeks,
And may the substance gain?
Then if thou'lt have me love a lass,
Let it be one that's kind;
Else I'm a servant to the glass
That's with Canary lined.
WITHIN this bottle's to be seen
A scarlet liquor, that has been
Born of the royal Vine;
We but nick-name it when we call
It Gods' drink, who drink none at all-
No higher name than Wine.
'Tis ladies' liquor: here one might
Feaft both his eye and appetite,
With beauty and with taste;
Cherries and roses, which you seek
Upon your mistress' lip and cheek,
Are here together placed.
Phyficians may prescribe their whey,
To purge our reins and brains away,
And clarify the blood;
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