SICK

UPON THE KING'S SICKNESS.

ICKNESS, the minister of Death, doth lay
So strong a siege against our brittle clay,
As, whilst it doth our weak forts singly win,
It hopes at length to take all mankind in.
First, it begins upon the womb to wait,
And doth the unborn Child there uncreate;
Then rocks the cradle where the Infant lies,
Where, ere it fully be alive, it dies.

It never leaves fond Youth, until it have
Found or an early or a later grave.

By thousand subtle sleights from heedless Man
It cuts the short allowance of a span;

And where both sober life and art combine
To keep it out, Age makes them both resign.
Thus, by degrees, it only gain'd of late
The weak, the aged, or intemperate.

But now the Tyrant hath found out a way
By which the sober, strong, and young decay;
Ent'ring his Royal limbs that is our head :

Through us (his mystic limbs) the pain is spread.
That man who doth not feel his [share] hath none
In any part of his dominion;

If he hold land, that earth is forfeited,
And he unfit on any ground to tread.

This grief is felt at Court, where it doth move
Through every joint, like the true soul of love.
All those fair stars, that do attend on Him
Whence they derived their light, wax pale and dim.

P. Charles.] That ruddy morning beam of Majesty,

Which should the sun's eclipsed light supply,

Is overcast with mists, and in the lieu
Of cheerful rays sends us down drops of dew.

That curious form, made of an earth refined,
At whose blest birth the gentle Planets shined
With fair aspects, and sent a glorious flame
To animate so beautiful a frame,

That Darling of the gods and men doth wear
A cloud on 's brow, and in his eye a tear.
And all the rest, save when his dread command
Doth bid them move, like lifeless statues stand.
So full a grief, so generally worn,

Shows a good King is sick, and good men mourn.

SONG.

TO A LADY, NOT YET ENJOYED BY HER HUSBAND.

‘OME, Celia, fix thine eyes on mine,

COME,

And through those crystals our souls flitting

Shall a pure wreath of eye-beams twine,

Our loving hearts together knitting.

Let Eaglets the bright Sun survey,
Though the blind Mole discern not day.

When clear Aurora leaves her mate,
The light of her grey eyes despising,
Yet all the world doth celebrate
With sacrifice her fair up-rising.
Let Eaglets the bright Sun survey,
Though the blind Mole discern not day.

A Dragon kept the golden fruit,

Yet he those dainties never tasted;

As others pined in the pursuit,

So he himself with plenty wasted. Let Eaglets the bright Sun survey, Though the blind Mole discern not day.

C

THE WILLING PRISONER TO HIS MISTRESS.

SONG,

ET fools great Cupid's yoke disdain,

LET

Loving their own wild freedom better; Whilst, proud of my triumphant chain,

I sit, and court my beauteous fetter.

Her murd'ring glances, snaring hairs,
And her bewitching smiles so please me;
As he brings ruin, who repairs

The sweet afflictions that disease me.

Hide not those panting balls of snow
With envious veils from my beholding;
Unlock those lips, their pearly row

In a sweet smile of love unfolding.

And let those eyes, whose motion wheels
The restless Fate of every lover,
Survey the pains my sick heart feels,

And wounds, themselves have made discover,

A FLY THAT FLEW INTO HIS CELIA'S EYE.

HILE this Fly lived, she used to play

WHILE

In the bright sunshine all the day;
Till, coming near my Celia's sight,
She found a new and unknown light,
So full of glory that it made

The noon-day Sun a gloomy shade.

At last this Amorous Fly became My rival, and did court my flame.

She did from hand to bosom skip,

And from her breath, her cheek, and lip,
Suck'd all the incense and the spice;
So grew a Bird of Paradise.

At last into her eye she flew,

There, scorch'd in heat and drown'd in dew,
Like Phaeton from the sun's sphere

She fell; and with her dropp'd a tear:
Of which a pearl was straight composed,
Wherein her ashes lie enclosed.

Thus she received from Celia's eye
Funeral, flame, tomb, obsequy.

SONG.

ON CELIA SINGING TO HER LUTE, IN ARUNDEL GARDEN.

HARK, how my Celia, with the choice

Music of her hand and voice,

Stills the loud wind, and makes the wild
Enraged boar and panther mild.
Mark how those statues like men move,
While men with wonder statues prove.

The stiff rock bends to worship her :
The Idol turns idolater.

Now, see how all the new inspired
Images with love are fired!

Hark how the tender marble groans,

And all the late transformed stones
Court the fair Nymph, with many a tear,
Which she-more stony than they were-
Beholds with unrelenting mind;

When they, amazed to see combined

Such matchless beauty with disdain,
Are all turn'd into stone again.

Then unveil your eyes: behold
The curious mould

Where that voice dwells: and, as we know
When the cocks crow,

We freely may gaze on the day;
So may you, when the Music's done,
Awake, and see the rising Sun.

SONG.

TO ONE THAT DESIRED TO KNOW MY MISTRESS.

EEK not to know my Love, for she

faith to me;

HER mild aspects are mine, and thou
Shalt only find a stormy brow:

For if her beauty stir desire

In me, her kisses quench the fire.

Or I can to Love's fountain go,
Or dwell upon her hills of snow;

But when thou burn'st, she will not spare
One gentle breath to cool the air:

Thou shalt not climb those Alps, nor spy
Where the sweet springs of Venus lie.