As ftars reflect on waters, so I fpy

In every drop, methinks, her eye.

The baby, which lives there, and always plays
In that illuftrious sphere,

Like a Narciffus does appear,

Whilst in his flood the lovely boy did gaze.

Ne'er yet did I behold fo glorious weather,
As this fun-fhine and rain together.
Pray Heaven her forehead, that pure hill of fnow
(For fome fuch fountain we must find,,
To waters of fo fair a kind)

Melt not, to feed that beauteous ftream below!

Ah, mighty Love! that it were inward heat
Which made this precious limbeck sweat!
But what, alas! ah, what does it avail,
That the weeps tears fo wondrous cold,
As fcarce the afs's hoof can hold,
So cold, that I admire they fall not hail.

D

DISCRETION..

Ifcreet! what means this word difcreet?
A curfe on all difcretion !

This barbarous term you will not meet
In all Love's lexicon.

Jointure, portion, gold, eftate,

Houses, houshold-stuff, or land,

(The low conveniencies of Fate)
Are Greek no lovers understand..

VOL. I.

X

Believer

Believe me, beauteous one! when love
Enters into a breast,

The two first things it does remove
Are friends and interest.

Paffion 's half blind, nor can endure
The careful, scrupulous eyes ;
Or else I could not love, I 'm fure,
One who in love were wife.

Men, in fuch tempefts toft about,
Will, without grief or pain,
Caft all their goods and riches out,
Themselves their port to gain.

As well might martyrs, who do choose
That facred death to take,

Mourn for the clcaths which they must lofe,
When they're bound naked to the stake.

TH

THE WAITING-MAID.

HY Maid! ah! find fome nobler theme
Whereon thy doubts to place;

Nor by a low fufpect blafpheme

The glories of thy face.

Alas! the makes thee fhine fo fair,
So exquifitely bright,

That her dim lamp must disappear
Before thy potent light.

Three

Three hours each morn in dressing thee
Maliciously are spent ;

And make that beauty tyranny,

That's elfe a civil government.

Th' adorning thee with fo much art
Is but a barbarous skill;

'Tis like the poisoning of a dart
Too apt before to kill.

The ministering angels none can see;
'Tis not their beauty' or face,
For which by men they worship'd be ;

But their high office and their place.
Thou art my Goddess, my Saint she;
I pray to her, only to pray to thee.

AH

COUNSEL.

H! what advice can I receive!
No, fatisfy me first;

For who would phyfick-potions give
To one that dies with thirst?

A little puff of breath, we find,

Small fires can quench and kill

But, when they 're great, the adverse wind
Does make them greater ftill.

Now whilft you speak, it moves me much,
But strait I'm just the same;

Alas! th' effect muft needs be fuch

Of cutting through a flame.

COME

THE CURE.

10ME, doctor! use thy roughest art,
Thou canst not cruel prove;

Cut, burn, and torture, every part,
To heal me of my love.

There is no danger, if the pain
Should me to a fever bring;

Compar'd with heats I now sustain,
A fever is fo cool a thing

(Like drink which feverish men defire) That I should hope 'twould almoft quench my fire.

THE

SEPARATION.

A

SK me not what my love shall do or be
(Love, which is foul to body, and foul of me!)
When I am feparated from thee;

Alas! I might as easily fhow,

What after death the foul will do ;

"Twill laft, I 'm fure, and that is all we know,

The thing call'd foul will never flir nor move,
But all that while a lifelefs carcafe prove;
For 'tis the body of my love:

Not that my love will fly away,

But ftill continue; as, they say,

Sad troubled ghosts about their graves do ftray.

THE

I

Chofe the flourishing'st tree in all the park,

With freshest boughs and fairest head; I cut my love into his gentle bark,

And in three days, behold! 'tis dead : My very written flames fo violent be,

They 've burnt and wither'd-up the tree.

How fhould I live myself, whofe heart is found
Deeply graven every where

With the large history of many a wound,

Larger than thy trunk can bear?
With art as strange as Homer in the nut,
Love in my heart has volumes put.

What a few words from thy rich stock did take
The leaves and beauties all,

As a strong poison with one drop does make
The nails and hairs to fall:

Love (I fee now) a kind of witchcraft is,
Or characters could ne'er do this.

Pardon, ye birds and nymphs, who lov'd this fhade;
And pardon me, thou gentle tree;

I thought her name would thee have happy made,
And bleffed omens hop'd from thee:

"Notes of my love, thrive here," said I," and grow; "And with ye let my love do fo."