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'Twas a child that so did thrive
In grace and feature, As Heaven and Nature seemed to strive
Which owned the creature. Years he numbered scarce thirteen
When Fates turned cruel,
The stage's jewel ;
Old men so duly,
He played so truly. So, by error to his fate
They all consented ;
They have repented ;
In baths to steep him ;
Heaven vows to keep him.
SOME my Celia, let us prove,
While we may, the sports of love ;
And I will pledge with mine ;
And I'll not look for wine.
Doth ask a drink divine ;
I would not change for thine.
I sent thee late a rosy wreath,
Not so much honouring thee,
It could not withered be.
And sent'st it back to me;
Not of itself, but thee.
A NYMPH'S PASSION.
LOVE, and he loves me again,
Yet dare I not tell who;
Yet if it be not known,
I'll tell, that if they be not glad,
They yet may envy me :
It were a plague 'bove scorn,
my heart would as my thought be torn.
He is, if they can find him, fair,
And fresh and fragrant too, As summer's sky, or purged air, And looks as lilies do
That are this morning blown; Yet, yet I doubt he is not known, And fear much more, that more of him be shown.
But he hath eyes so round and bright,
As make away my doubt,
But then to increase my fears,
I'll tell no more, and yet I love,
And he loves me; yet no
But so exempt from blame,
IN CELEBRATION OF CHARIS.
EE the chariot at hand here of Love,
Wherein my lady rideth ! Each that draws is a swan or a dove,
And well the car Love guideth. As she goes, all hearts do duty
Unto her beauty;