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CUPID and my Campaspe play'd
At cards for kisses ; Cupid paid :
O Love! has she done thus to thee?
Yes! O yes! if any maid
Whom leering Cupid has betray'd To frowns of spite, to eyes of scorn, And would in madness now see torn The boy in pieces ; let her come Hither, and lay on him her doom. O yes ! O yes ! has any lost A heart which mapy a sigh hath cost? Is any cozen'd of a tear Which, as a pearl, Disdain doth wear? Here stands the thief; let her but come Hither, and lay on him her doom. Is any one undone by fire, And turn'd to ashes through desire ? Did ever any lady weep, Being cheated of her golden sleep, Stol'n by sick thoughts ? the pirate's found, And in her tears he shall be drown'd. Read his indictment: let him hear What he's to trust to: Boy, give car.
SONNETS. BEAUTY, sweet love, is like the morning dew,
Whose short refresh upon the tender green, Cheers for a time, but till the sun doth shew,
And straight 'tis gone as it had never been. Soon doth it fade that makes the fairest flourish,
Short is the glory of the blushing rose:
Yet which at length thou must be forc'd to lose. When thou, surcharg'd with burthen of thy years,
Shall bend thy wrinkles homeward to the earth, And when in beauty's lease, expir'd, appears
The date of age, the calends of our deathBut ah! no more-this must not be foretold, For women grieve to think they must be old.
Must not grieve my love, whose eyes would read
Lines of delight whereon her youth might smile, Flowers have time before they come to seed,
And she is young, and now must sport the while.
And sport (sweet maid) in season of these years,
And learn to gather flowers before they wither, And where the sweetest blossom first appears,
Let love and youth conduct thy pleasures thither. Lighten forth smiles to cheer the clouded air,
Ana calm the tempest which my sighs do raise; Pity and smiles do best become the fair,
Pity and smiles must only yield thee praise. Make me to say, when all my griefs are gone, Happy the heart that sigh'd for such a one.
LOOK, Delia, how we'esteen the half-blown rose,
The image of thy blush, and summer's honour; Whilst yet her tender bud doth undisclose That full of beauty time bestows upon her! No sooner spreads her glory in the air,
But strait her wide-blown pomp comes to decline; She then is scorn'd, that late adorn'd the fair:
So fade the roses of those cheeks of thine! No April can revive thy wither'd flow'rs,
Whose springing grace adorns thy glory now; Swift speedy Time, feather'd with flying hours,
Dissolves the beauty of the fairest brow. Then do not thou súch treasure waste in vain; But love now, whilst thou may'st be lov'd again.
In aged accents and untimely words,
Which well the reach of their high wits records; But I must sing of thee, and those fair eyes !
Authentic shall my verse in time to come;
Whose beauty made him speak, that else was dumb!” These are the arks, the trophies I erect,
That fortify thy name against old age ;
Against the dark, and time's consuming rage. Though the error of my youth they shall discover; Suffice they shew-I liv'd, and was thy lover!
RESTORE thy tresses to the Golden ore;
To Cytherea's son those arks of love; Bequeath the Heavens the stars that I adore;
And to the Orient do thy pearls remove : Yield thy hands' pride unto the Ivory white;
To’ Arabian odours give thy breathing sweet; Restore thy blush unto Aurora bright;
To Thetis give the honour of thy feet: Let Venus have thy graces her resign'd;
And thy sweet voice give back unto the Spheres ;
To Hyrcan tigers, and to ruthless bears :
To go from sorrow, and thine own distress; When ev'ry place presents like face of woe,
And no remove can make thy sorrows less ? Yet go, Forsaken ! leave these woods, these plains;
Leave her and all, and all for her that leaves Thee and thy love forlorn, and both disdains;
And of both wrongful deems, and ill conceives. Seek out some place; and see if any place
Can give the least release unto thy grief; Convey thee from the thought of thy disgrace,
Steal from thyself, and be thy care's own thief. But yet what comfort shall I hereby gain? Bearing the wound, I needs must feel the pain !
PHILLIDA AND CORYDON.
In a morn by break of day,
THE SHEPHERD'S ADDRESS TO HIS MUSE.
Goop, muse, rock me asleep
With some sweet harmony: This weary eyes is not to keep
Thy wary company.