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Art thou that she

'ART thou that she than whom none fairer is,

Art thou that she desire so strives to kiss ?'

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'Art thou that she the world commends for wit? Art thou so wise and mak'st no use of it?'

Say I am: how then?

My wit doth teach me shun

Such foolish foolish men.'

Christ Church MS. 439.


(Poem written before 1627.)*

What if I speed

WHAT if I speed where I least expected,
What shall I say? shall I lie?

What if I miss where I most affected,
What shall I do? shall I die?

No, no! I'll have at all,
'Tis as my game doth fall.
If I keep my meaning close
I may hit howe'er it goes.
For time and I

Do mean to try
What hope doth lie in youth:

The minds that doubt

Are in and out,

And women flout all truth.



The Hunter's Song

LONG ere the morn
Expects the return

Of Apollo from the ocean queen,
Before the creak

Of the crow, and the break
Of the day in the welkin is seen,
Mounted he 'd hollo

And cheerfully follow

To the chase with his bugle clear:
Echo he makes

And the mountains shakes

With the thunder of his career.

Now bonny Bay

In his foam waxeth grey,

Dapple Grey waxeth bay in his blood; White Lily stops

With the scent in her chops,

And Black Lady makes it good.

Poor silly Wat

In this wretched state

Forgets these delights for to hear;

Nimbly she bounds

From the cry of the hounds

And the music of their career.

Hills with the heat

Of the gallopers sweat,

Reviving their frozen tops;
Dales' purple flowers

They spring from the showers.
That down from the rowels drops :

Wat] name given to the hare.

Swains their repast,

And strangers their haste
Neglect when the horns they do hear;

To see a fleet

Pack of hounds in a sheet,
And the hunter in his career.

Thus he careers

Over moors, over meres,
Over deeps, over downs, over clay,
Till he hath won

The noon from the morn,

And the evening from the day :
His sport then he ends,

And joyfully wends

Home again to his cottage, where
Frankly he feasts

Himself and his guests,

And carouses to his career.

Sportive Wit, 1656.

(And in Bodley MS. Rawl. Poet. 246.

Poem written c. 1627 ?)*


NEAR to the silver Trent
Sirena dwelleth ;

She to whom Nature lent

All that excelleth ;
By which the Muses late

And the neat Graces

Have for their greater state

Taken their places,

Twisting an anadem

Wherewith to crown her,


As it belonged to them
Most to renown her.
On thy bank,

In a rank,

Let thy swans sing her, And with their music

Along let them bring her.

Tagus and Pactolus

Are to thee debtor,
Nor for their gold to us
Are they the better:
Henceforth of all the rest
Be thou the river
Which, as the daintiest,
Puts them down ever:
For as my precious one
O'er thee doth travel,
She to pearl paragon
Turneth thy gravel.
On thy bank, &c.

Our mournful Philomel,

That rarest tuner, Henceforth in Aperil

Shall wake the sooner,

And to her shall complain
From the thick cover,
Redoubling every strain
Over and over:

For when my Love too long
Her chamber keepeth,
As though it suffered wrong,
The morning weepeth.
On thy bank, &c.

Oft have I seen the sun,

To do her honour, Fix himself at his noon To look upon her; And hath gilt every grove, Every hill near her, With his flames from above

Striving to cheer her; And when she from his sight Hath herself turned,

He, as it had been night,

In clouds hath mourned.
On thy bank, &c.

The verdant meads are seen,
When she doth view them,
In fresh and gallant green
Straight to renew them;
And every little grass

Broad itself spreadeth,
Proud that this bonny lass
Upon it treadeth;
Nor flower is so sweet

In this large cincture,

But it upon her feet

Leaveth some tincture.

On thy bank, &c.

The fishes in the flood,
When she doth angle,
For the hook strive a-good
Them to entangle,
And leaping on the land

From the clear water,
Their scales upon the sand

Lavishly scatter,

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