Can he prize the tainted posies On her sweet breast, That is the pride of Cynthia's train: Thy mermaid song Is all bestow'd on me in vain. He's a fool that basely dallies Where each peasant mates with him; Shall I haunt the thronged valleys, Whilst there's nobler hills to climb? No, no; though clowns Are scar'd with frowns, I know the best can but disdain: So will thy love Be all bestow'd on me in vain.. I do scorn to vow a duty, Where each lustful lad may woo: Affords that bliss For which I would refuse no pain: Fond fools, adieu; You seek to captive me in vain. Leave me then, you syrens, leave me, Seek no more to work my harms; Crafty wiles cannot deceive me, Who am proof against your charms: You labour may To lead astray The heart that constant shall remain; And I the while Will sit and smile To see you spend your time in vain. BEN JONSON. SONG. COME, my Celia, let us prove, While we may, the sweets of love; 'Tis no sin love's fruits to steal; To be taken, to be seen, These have crimes áccounted been. THE SWEET NEGLECT. STILL to be neat, still to be drest, As you were going to a feast; Tho' art's hid causes are not found, That strike mine eye, but not mine heart, 74 HUE AND CRY AFTER CUPID. BEAUTIES, have ye seen a toy, Called Love; a little boy Almost naked, wanton, blind, She that will but now discover And his breath a flame entire: Which, being shot like lightning in, Still the fairest are his fuel, When his days are to be cruel; Lovers' hearts are all his food, And his baths their warmest blood: And he hates none like to reason. Trust him not; his words, though sweet, Seldom with his heart do meet All his practice is deceit, Every gift is but a bait: Not a kiss but poison bears, And most treason's in his tears. Idle minutes are his reign, Then the straggler makes his gain, To have all childish as himself. If by these ye please to know him, WILLIAM BROWN. SONG. SHALL I tell you whom I love? Hearken then a while to me: And if such a woman move As I now shall versifie, Nature did her so much right, As she scorns the help of art; In as many virtues dight, As e'er yet embraced a heart; So much good, so truly tried, Some for less were deified. Wit she hath, without desire To make known how much she hath: And her anger flames no higher Than may fitly sweeten wrath. Full of pity as may be, Though, perhaps, not so to me. Reason masters every sense, Modest in her most of mirth; Such she is; and if you know |