And thou i'th' storm to lose an eye,

A wing, or a self-trapping thigh;

Yet hadst thou fall'n like him, whose coil Made fishes in the sea to broil;

When now thou'st scap'd the noble flame;
Trapp'd basely in a slimy frame;

And free of air, thou art become
Slave to the spawn of mud and loam.

Nor is't enough thyself dost dress
To thy swoln lord a num'rous mess,
And by degrees thy thin veins bleed,
And piecemeal dost his poison feed;
But now devour'd, art like to be
A net spun for thy family,
And straight expanded in the air
Hang'st for thy issue too a snare.
Strange witty death, and cruel ill,
That killing thee, thou thine dost kill!
Like pies, in whose entombed ark
All fowl crowd downward to a lark;
Thou art thine en'mies' sepulchre,
And in thee buriest too thine heir.

Yet Fates a glory have reserv'd
For one so highly hath deserv'd;
As the rhinoceros doth die
Under his castle-enemy,

As through the crane's trunk throat doth speed,
The asp doth on his feeder feed;

Fall yet triumphant in thy woe,

Bound with the entrails of thy foe.

A FLY ABOUT A GLASS OF BURNT CLARET.

FORBEAR this liquid fire, fly,

It is more fatal than the dry,

That singly, but embracing, wounds,

And this at once, both burns and drowns.

The salamander that in heat

And flames doth cool his monstrous sweat;
Whose fan a glowing cake, is said,
Of this red furnace is afraid.

Viewing the ruby-crystal shine,
Thou tak'st it for heaven-crystalline;
Anon thou wilt be taught to groan,
'Tis an ascended Acheron.

A snowball-heart in it let fall,
And take it out a fire-ball:

An icy breast in it betray'd,

Breaks a destructive wild granade.

"Tis this makes Venus' altars shine,
This kindles frosty Hymen's pine;
When the boy grows old in his desires,
This flambeau doth new light his fires.

Though the cold hermit ever wail,

Whose sighs do freeze, and tears drop hail;
Once having passed this, will ne'er
Another flaming purging fear.

The vestal drinking this doth burn,
Now more than in her fun'ral urn;
Her fires, that with the sun kept race,
Are now extinguish'd by her face.

The chymist, that himself doth still,
Let him but taste this limbeck's bill,
And prove this sublimated bowl,

He'll swear it will calcine a soul.

Noble, and brave! now thou dost know,
The false prepared decks below,

Dost thou the fatal liquor sup,

One drop, alas! thy bark blows up.

What airy country hast to save,

Whose plagues thou'lt bury in thy grave?
For even now thou seem'st to us
On this gulf's brink a Curtius.

And now thou'rt fall'n (magnanimous fly)
In, where thine ocean doth fry,

Like the sun's son who blush'd the flood,
To a complexion of blood.

Yet see! my glad auricular

Redeems thee (though dissolv’d) a star,
Flaggy thy wings, and scorch'd thy thighs,
Thou li'st a double sacrifice.

And now my warming, cooling, breath,
Shall a new life afford in death;

See! in the hospital of my hand
Already cur'd, thou fierce dost stand.

Burnt insect! dost thou reaspire
The moist-hot-glass, and liquid fire?
I see! 'tis such a pleasing pain,

Thou would'st be scorch'd, and drown'd again.

FEMALE GLORY.

'MONGST the world's wonders, there doth yet remain One greater than the rest, that's all those o'er again, And her own self beside; a lady whose soft breast, Is with vast honour's soul, and virtue's life possess'd. Fair, as original light, first from the chaos shot, When day in virgin-beams triumph'd, and night was

not.

And as that breath infus'd, in the new-breather good, When ill unknown was dumb, and bad not understood; Cheerful, as that aspect at this world's finishing, When cherubims clapp'd wings, and th' sons of heav'n did sing.

Chaste as th' Arabian bird, who all the air denies, And evʼn in flames expires, when with herself she lies. Oh! she's as kind as drops of new fall'n April showers, That on each gentle breast, spring fresh perfuming flowers;

She's constant, gen'rous, fix'd, she's calm, she is the

all

We can of virtue, honour, faith, or glory call;

And she is (whom I thus transmit to endless fame) Mistress o'th' world, and me, and LAURA is her name.

A Dialogue.

LUTE AND VOICE.

L. SING Laura, sing, whilst silent are the spheres,
And all the eyes of heaven are turn'd to ears.
V. Touch thy dead wood, and make each living tree,
Unchain its feet, take arms, and follow thee.

CHORUS.

L. Sing. V. Touch. O touch. L. O sing. Both. It is the soul's, soul's, sole offering.