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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,
Yet three filled zodiacs had he been

The stage's jewel ;
And did act, what now we moan,

Old men so duly,
As, sooth, the Parcæ thought him one,

He played so truly. So, by error to his fate

They all consented ;
But viewing him since, alas ! too late,

They have repented ;
And have sought, to give new birth,

In baths to steep him ;
But being so much too good for earth,

Heaven vows to keep him.




SOME my Celia, let us prove,

While we may, the sports of love ;
Time will not be ours for ever:
He at length our good will sever.
Spend not then his gifts in vain.
Suns that set may rise again:
But if once we lose this light,
'Tis with us perpetual night.
Why should we defer our joys ?
Fame and rumour are but toys.
Cannot we delude the eyes
Of a few poor household spies?
Or his easier ears beguile,
So removed by our wile ?
'Tis no sin love's fruit to steal,
But the sweet theft to reveal:
To be taken, to be seen,
These have crimes accounted been.



And I will pledge with mine ;
Or leave a kiss but in the cup,

And I'll not look for wine.
The thirst that from the soul doth rise,

Doth ask a drink divine ;
But might I of Jove's nectar sup,

I would not change for thine.

I sent thee late a rosy wreath,

Not so much honouring thee,
As giving it a hope that there

It could not withered be.
But thou thereon did’st only breathe,

And sent'st it back to me;
Since when it grows, and smells, I swear,

Not of itself, but thee.

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LOVE, and he loves me again,

Yet dare I not tell who;
For is the nymphs should know my swain,
I fear they'd love him too;

Yet if it be not known,
The pleasure is as good as none,
For that's a narrow joy is but our own.

I'll tell, that if they be not glad,

They yet may envy me :
But then if I grow jealous mad,
And of them pitied be,

It were a plague 'bove scorn,
And yet it cannot be forborn,

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,
Where Love may all his torches light
Though Hate had put them out:

But then to increase my fears,
What nymph soe’er his voice but hears,
Will be my rival, though she have but ears.

I'll tell no more, and yet I love,

And he loves me; yet no
One unbecoming thought doth move
From either heart I know ;

But so exempt from blame,
As it would be to each a fame,
If love or fear would let me tell his name.





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;

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