Here's the spring-head of pleasures' flood;

Here's wealthy Nature's treasury

Where all the riches lie that she

Has coin'd and stamp'd for good!

Pride and ambition here

Only in far-fetch'd metaphors appear;

Here nought but winds can hurtful murmurs scatter; And nought but Echo flatter.

The Gods, when they descended, hither From heaven did always choose their way: And therefore we may boldly say

That 'tis the way to thither.

How happy here should I

And one dear She live, and embracing die!
She who is all the world, and can exclude
In deserts solitude.

I should have then this only fear:
Lest men, when they my pleasure see,
Should hither throng to live like me;
And so make a City here.

AGAINST ADORNMENT.

Tyrian dye why do you wear,
You whose cheeks best scarlet are?
Why do you fondly pin

Pure linens o'er your skin,

Your skin that's whiter far,

Casting a dusky cloud before a star?

Why bears your neck a golden chain?
Did Nature make your hair in vain
Of gold most pure and fine?

With gems why do you shine ?

They, neighbours to your eyes,

Show but like Phosphor when the Sun doth rise.

I would have all my Mistress' parts
Owe more to Nature than to Arts;
I would not woo the dress,

Or One whose nights give less
Contentment than the day:

She's fair whose beauty only makes her gay.

For 'tis not buildings make a Court,
Or pomp, but 'tis the King's resort :
If Jupiter down pour

Himself and in a shower

Hide such bright Majesty,

Less than a golden one it can not be.

AN EPITAPH.

Underneath this marble stone

Lie two Beauties join'd in One:

Two whose loves death could not sever,
For both lived, both died together;

Two whose souls, being too divine

For earth, in their own sphere now shine;
Who have left their loves to fame,
And their earth to earth again.

SIR EDWARD SHERBURNE.

1618-1702.

THE HEART-MAGNET.

Shall I, hopeless, then pursue

A fair shadow that still flies me?

Shall I still adore and woo

A proud heart that does despise me?

I a constant love may so,

But, alas! a fruitless show.

Shall I by the erring light

Of two crossing stars still sail, That do shine, but shine in spite,

Not to guide but make me fail?
I a wandering course may steer,
But the harbour ne'er come near.

Whilst these thoughts my soul possess
Reason passion would o'ersway,
Bidding me my flames suppress
Or divert some other way:
But what reason would pursue,
That my heart runs counter to.

So a pilot, bent to make

Search for some unfound-out land, Does with him the magnet take, Sailing to the unknown strand : But that, steer which way he will, To the loved North points still.

FALSE LYCORIS.

Lately, by clear Thames, his side,
Fair Lycoris I espied,

With the pen of her white hand

These words printing on the sand:

None Lycoris doth approve

But Mirtillo for her love.

Ah, false Nymph! those words were fit

In sand only to be writ:

For the quickly rising streams

Of Oblivion and the Thames

In a little moment's stay

From the shore wash'd clean away
What thy hand had there impress'd,

And Mirtillo from thy breast.

RICHARD BROME.

16**_1652.

BEGGARS' SONG.

Come! come away! the Spring,
By every bird that can but sing
Or chirp a note, doth now invite
Us forth to taste of his delight,

In field, in grove, on hill, in dale;
But above all the nightingale,

Who in her sweetness strives to outdo
The loudness of the hoarse cuckoo.

Cuckoo! cries he; jug, jug, jug! sings she:

From bush to bush, from tree to tree.
Why in one place then tarry we?

Come away! Why do we stay?
We have no debt or rent to pay;
No bargains or accompts to make;
Nor land nor lease, to let or take.
Or if we had, should that remore us
When all the world's our own before us,
And where we pass and make resort
It is our kingdom and our court.

Cuckoo! cries he; jug, jug, jug! sings she:
From bush to bush, from tree to tree.
Why in one place then tarry we ?

ALEXANDER BROME.

1620-1666.

THE RESOLVE.

Tell me not of a face that's fair,

Nor lip and cheek that's red,
Nor of the tresses of her hair,
Nor curls in order laid,
Nor of a rare seraphic voice

That like an angel sings!

Though, if I were to take my choice,

I would have all these things.
But if that thou wilt have me love,
And it must be a She,

The only argument can move

Is that she will love me.

The glories of your ladies be
But metaphors of things,
And but resemble what we see

Each common object brings:
Roses out-red their lips and cheeks,
Lilies their whiteness stain ;
What fool is he that shadows seeks
And may the substance gain?
Then if thou'lt have me love a Lass,
Let it be one that's kind!

Else I'm a servant to the glass
That's with Canary lined.

PALINODE.

No more, no more of this, I vow!
'Tis time to leave this fooling now,
Which few but fools call wit.
There was a time when I begun,
And now 'tis time I should have done
And meddle no more with it:

He physic's use doth quite mistake,
Who physic takes for physic's sake.

My heat of youth, and love, and pride,
Did swell me with their strong spring-tide,
Inspired my brain and blood;

And made me then converse with toys
Which are call'd Muses by the boys,

And dabble in their flood.