SEDLEY. SONG. PHILLIS, let's shun the common fate, And let our love ne'er turn to hate. Each one possess'd of his own heart. I will the blame on nature lay. SONG. NOT, Celia, that I juster am, Or better than the rest; For I would change each hour, like them, Were not my heart at rest. But I am ty'd to very thee All that in woman is ador'd, In thy dear self I find; For the whole sex can but afford Why then should I seek farther store, And still make love anew? When change itself can give no more, 'Tis easy to be true. SONG. GET you gone--you will undo me, If you love me don't pursue me; Let that inclination perish, With harmless thoughts I did begin, At ev'ry hour, in ev'ry place, My dreams at night were all of you, But now his teeth and claws are grown, You found me harmless, leave me so; SONG. HEARS not my Phillis, how the birds, Their feather'd mates salute? They tell their passion in their words, Phillis, without frown or smile, The god of love, in thy bright eyes, But in thy heart, a child he lies, Phillis, &c. So many months in silence past, Might well deserve one word at last, Phillis, &c. Must then your faithful swain expire, Which he, to soothe his fond desire, Phillis, without frown or smile, CHARLES COTTON. TO CHLORIS. LORD! how you take upon you still! How still expect to have your will, And carry the dominion clear, As you were still the same that once you were! Fie, Chloris, 'tis a gross mistake, Correct your errors, and be wise; But yet have learn'd, though love I prize, I was a fool while you were fair, And all the rest are so that lovers are: Gives all the rule and sway; Which once declining, or declin❜d, Men afterwards unwillingly obey. Yet still you have enough, and more than needs, Nor is it much against my will, Your beauties, sweet, are at their height, New years new graces still create, Nay, maugre time, mischance, and fate, You in your very ruins shall have more Than all the beauties that have grac'd the world before. SIR RICHARD FANSHAW. THOU blushing rose, within whose virgin leaves Know then, the thing that swells thee is thy bane; For the same beauty, doth in bloody leaves The sentence of thy early death contain. Some clown's coarse lungs will poison thysweet flow'r, If by the careless plough thou shalt be torn, And many Herods lie in wait each hour, To murder thee as soon as thou art born. Nay, force thy bud to blow, their tyrant breath Anticipating life to hasten death. |