A FICTION, HOW CUPID MADE A NYMPH WOUND HERSELF WITH HIS ARROWS.

IT chanced, of late, a Shepherd's Swain,
That went to seek a strayed sheep,

Within a thicket, on the plain,

Espied a dainty Nymph asleep.

Her golden hair o'erspread her face,
Her careless arms abroad were cast,
Her quiver had her pillow's place,

Her breast lay bare to every blast.

The Shepherd stood, and gazed his fill!
Nought durst he do! nought durst he say!
When chance, or else perhaps his will,
Did guide the God of Love that way.

The crafty boy, that sees her sleep,

Whom, if She waked, he durst not see,
Behind her closely seeks to creep,
Before her nap should ended be.

There come; he steals her shafts away;
And puts his own into their place:

Ne dares he any longer stay;

But, ere She wakes, hies hence apace!

Scarce was he gone, when She awakes,
And spies the Shepherd standing by;
Her bended bow in haste She takes,
And at the simple Swain lets fly.

Forth flew the shaft, and pierced his heart,
That to the ground he fell with pain;

Yet up again forthwith he start,

And to the Nymph he ran amain.

Amazed to see so strange a sight,

She shot! and shot! but all in vain : The more his wounds, the more his might! Love yielded strength, in midst of pain.

Her angry eyes are great with tears,

She blames her hands! She blames her skill! The bluntness of her shafts She fears; And try them on herself She will!

'Take heed, sweet Nymph! Try not the shaft! Each little touch will prick the heart! Alas, thou know'st not CUPID's craft!

Revenge is joy; the end is smart!'

Yet try She will, and prick some bare!

Her hands were gloved; and, next to hand,

Was that fair breast, that breast so rare! That made the Shepherd senseless stand.

That breast She pricked; and, through that breast,
Love finds an entry to her heart.
At feeling of this new-come guest,

Lord! how this gentle Nymph doth start!

She runs not now! She shoots no more!
Away She throws both shafts and bow!
She seeks for that She shunned before!

She thinks the Shepherd's haste too slow!
Though mountains meet not; Lovers may!
So others do; and so do they!

The God of Love sits on a tree,

And laughs, that pleasant sight to see.

TO TIME.

ETERNAL Time, that wasteth without waste!
That art, and art not! diest, and livest still!
Most slow of all; and yet of greatest haste!
Both ill, and good; and neither good, nor ill!
How can I justly praise thee, or dispraise!
Dark are thy nights; but bright and clear thy days!

Both free and scarce, thou giv'st and tak'st again!
Thy womb, that all doth breed, is tomb to all!
Whatso by thee hath life, by thee is slain!

From thee, do all things rise; by thee, they fall! Constant, inconstant, moving, standing still; WAS, IS, SHALL BE, do thee both breed and kill.

I lose thee, when I seek to find thee out!
The farther off, the more I follow thee!
The faster hold, the greater cause of doubt!
WAS, IS, I know; but SHALL, I cannot see!
All things by thee are measured; thou, by none!
All are in thee! Thou, in thyself alone!

WHERE HIS LADY KEEPS HIS HEART.

SWEET LOVE, mine only treasure!
For service long unfeigned,
Wherein I nought have gained,
Vouchsafe this little pleasure!
To tell me, In what part
My Lady keeps my heart?

If in her Hair so slender,

Like golden nets untwined,
Which fire and Art have fined;

Her thrall my heart I render!
For ever to abide

With locks so dainty tied!

If in her Eyes, She bind it;
Wherein that fire was framed,
By which it is inflamed;

I dare not look to find it!
I only wish it sight,

To see that pleasant light!

But if her Breast have deignèd
With kindness to receive it;
I am content to leave it,
Though death thereby were gainèd;
Then, Lady! take your own!
That lives for you alone.

CUPID'S MARRIAGE WITH

DISSIMULATION.

A NEW-FOUND Match is made of late,
Blind CUPID needs will change his wife!
New-fangled LOVE doth PSYCHE hate!
With whom so long he led his life.
DISSEMBLING, she

The Bride must be,

To please his wanton eye!
PSYCHE laments

That LovE repents

His choice! without cause, Why?

Cytheron sounds with music strange,
Unknown unto the Virgins nine.
From flat to sharp, the tune doth range;
Too base, because it is too fine.

See how the Bride,

Puffed up with pride,