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He would sit, and mark, and do
What I did ; now ruffle all
His feathers o'er, now let them fall, And then straightway sleek them too.
Whence will Cupid get his darts
A wound he may,
Not love, convey,
Oh ! let mournful turtles join
With loving redbreasts, and combine To sing dirges o'er his stone.
(From “ The Ordinary."]
Whiles early light springs from the skies,
Her blush doth shed
Clear shame-fac'd beams,
That spread in streams,
I will not tell what shrieks and cries,
Whiles froward she,
To keep o'er night
Fair, we know maids do refuse
Not any kiss
Persuade and woo.
Oh, may her arms wax black and blue Only by hard encircling you;
May she round about you twine
And whiles you sip
As morning dew,
[From the same.]
COME, O come, I brook no stay;
See, how the stealing night
Hath blotted out the light, And tapers do supply the day!
To be chaste, is to be old,
Is fourscore at fifteen :
Desires do write us green,
See, the first taper's almost gone !
And I, as it expire,
Unable to hold fire:
O let us cherish then these power's, Whiles we yet may call them ours !
Then we best spend our time,
When no dull zealous chime, But sprightful kisses strike the hours. THOMAS NABBES.
Langbaine, without giving us any particulars of his life, only
tells us that he was pretty much esteemed by his contemporaries. The first of the following specimens, extracted from his poems, (subjoined to “The Spring's Glory,” a masque, Lond. 4to. 1639), has some originality: the second would not have been disowned by his patron, Suckling. See Biographia Dramatica.
Upon excellent strong Beer, which he drank at the
town of Wich, in Worcestershire, where salt is made.
Thou ever youthful god of wine,
Thy wanton grapes we do detest;
Let not the Muses vainly tell,