But since 't hath been imparted to one more, But think withal what honour thou hast lost, Whilst now that swain that swears he loves thee most FALSEHOOD. [From 6 stanzas.] STILL do the stars impart their light Or shadow on the dial stand: The streams still glide and constant are: Only thy mind Untrue I find, Neglects to be Like stream or shadow, hand or star. LESBIA ON HER SPARROW. TELL me not of joy! there's none He, just as you, Would sigh and woo, He would chirp and flatter me; He would hang the wing a while, Till at length he saw me smile, Lord! how sullen he would be! He would catch a crumb, and then He from my lip Would moisture sip, He would from my trencher feed; Then would hop, and then would run, And cry Philip when he'd done; Oh! whose heart can choose but bleed? Oh! how eager would he fight, And ne'er hurt tho' he did bite; No morn did pass, He would sit, and mark, and do His feathers o'er, now let them fall, And then straightway sleek them too. Whence will Cupid get his darts Not love, convey, Now this faithful bird is gone. Oh! let mournful turtles join With loving redbreasts, and combine To sing dirges o'er his stone. SONG. [From "the Ordinary.”] WHILST early light springs from the skies, A fairer from your bride doth rise; All o'er the bed Clear shame-fac'd beams, That spread in streams, And purple round the modest air. I will not tell what shrieks and cries, The listening taper heard there sworn: Whilst froward she, Most peevishly, Did yielding fight To keep o'er night What she'd have proffer'd you ere morn. Fair, we know maids do refuse To grant what they do come to lose: Intend a conquest you that wed! They would be chastely ravished: Persuade and woo. Know, pleasure's by extorting fed. O may her arms wax black and blue, May she round about you Like the easy twisting vine; And whilst you sip From her full lip Pleasures as new As morning dew, twine Let those soft ties your hearts combine. SONG. [From the same.] COME, O Come, I brook no stay; Hath blotted out the light, To be chaste, is to be old, Desires do write us green, See, the first taper's almost gone! Thy flame like that will straight be none; |