Thy mind is fayrer then thy face or eyes;
And that same beauteous outside which thou hast ;
Is but a curious casket, in which lyes

The treasures of a minde vertuous and chaste.
So keepe them stil and let not youth deceiue thee:
For when through age thy beautie shall decay,
Those that for beautie loue thee then will leaue thee.
But worth will last vntill thy dying day.

But he that shall for both of these esteeme thee,
And thinke thee faire and know thy vertues too;
Hee cannot chuse but euer dearly deeme thee,
And much admire thee, as I sweare I doe.

x.*

Loue the delight of all well thinking minds,
The fruit of vertue deerly lou'd;

Vertue the highest good that reason finds,

Reason the fire wherein mens thoughts be proou'd;
Are from the world by natures power bee reft,
And in one creature for her glorie left.

(Part 2.)

Beautie her couer is the eyes true pleasure:

In honours fame she liues: the eares sweet musicke; Excesse of wonder growes from her true measure,

Her worth is passions wound and passions physicke: From her true heart clear springs of wisdome flow, Which imag'd in her words and deed men know.

(Part 3.)

Time faine would stay that she might neuer leaue her;
Death craues of heauen that she may not bereaue her;

Containing

• Basses. Mottects or Grave Chamber Musique. songs of fiue parts of seuerall sorts, some ful, and some verse and chorus. But all fit for voyces and vials, with an Organ part; which for want of Organs, may be performed on Virginals, Base-Lvte, Bandora or Irish Harpe. Also a mourning song of sixe parts for the death of the late Right Honorable Sir Fulke Grevil, Knight of the Honourable Order of the Bath, Lord Brooke, Baron Brooke of Beauchamps Court, in the Countie of Warwicke, and of his Maiesties most Honourable Priuie Councell, &c. Composed according to the rules of Art, by M[artin] P[eersons] Batcheler of Musique. London, printed by William Stansby 1630. Dedicated to Robert, Lord Brooke, Baron Brooke of Beauchamps Court in the Countie of Warwicke. Contains 25 pieces of musick.

The

The heauens know their owne and do maintaine her;
Delight, loue, reason, vertue let it bee,
To set all women light but only shee.

xi.

Cvpid my prettie boye, leaue off thy crying,

Thou shalt haue bels and apples, be not peeuish:
Kisse mee sweet ladde, beshrew her for denying,
Such rude denials doe make children theeuish.
Did reason say that boyes must bee restrayned,
Ör would they haue thee from sweete Mira weyned?
What was it tell that cruel honour chidden?
Are those faire breasts made daintie to be hidden?

Tell mee, sweete boy, doth Mira's beautie thretten :
Must you say grace when you should be a playing,
Doth shee make thee make faults to make thee beaten:
Is beauties pride in innocence betraying?
Giue me a bow, let mee thy quiver borrow,
And she shall play the child with loue or sorrow.

xii.

Who trusts for trust, or hopes of loue for loue,
Or who belou'd in Cupid's lawes doth glorie;
Who ioyes in vowes, or vowes not to remooue,
Who by this light God hath not been made sorrie :
Let him see me eclipsed from my sonne,
With shadows of an earth quite overrun.

(Second part.)

Who thinkes that sorrows felt, desires hidden,
Or humble faith with constant honour armed,
Can keepe Loue from the fruit that is forbidden,
Change I doe meane by no faith to be charmed:
Looking on mee let him know loues delights
Are treasures hid in caues, but kept with sprights.
xiii.*

Where shall a sorrow great enough bee sought
For this sad ruine which the fates haue nought;
Vnlesse the fates themselves should weepe, and wish,
Their curblesse powers had been control'd in this?
For thy losse, worthiest Lord, no mourning eye
Has flood enough, no muse, nor elegie
Enough expression to thy worth can lend,
No, though thy Sidney had suruiu'd his friend.

* Upon Sir Fulke Grevill, see title.

Part

(Part 2.)

Dead, noble Brooke, shall be to us a name
Of griefe and honour still; whose deathless fame
Such vertue purchased as makes vs to bee
Vnjust to nature in lamenting thee;
Whyling an olde mans fate, as if in pride
And heate of youth hee had vntimely dy'd."

J. H.

¶ Folly in Print, or, a Book of Rymes.
Whoever buyes this book will say,
There's so much money thrown away:
The Author thinks you are to blame,
To buy a book without a name;
And to say truth, it is so bad,
A worse is no where to be had.

London, printed in the year 1667.

Licensed by L'Estrange, May 15, 1667, and contains the lucubrations of a soldier who served in the Dutch and Spanish wars. His name was probably Reymund, and he was intimate or connected with several branches of the noble family of Bellasise. The "rymes" are chiefly lyrical and amatory, with some occasional pieces, rather too volatile and humorous, though sanctioned by the manners of that licentious age. They are introduced

with a short address

"To

One is "a Ballad on a friend's wedding, to the tune of Sir John Suckling's Ballad." The introductory lines, and first two stanzas, may be given.

"As an attendant on Sir John

I wait without comparison,

Great difference is in our pen

And something in the maids and men,

I do not write to get a name.

At best, this is but ballad fame,

And Suckling hath shut up that door,
To all hereafter as before.

Y 2

Now

"To the Reader.

"COURTEOUS READER,

"The whole world (imaginably) is but one great market; and all mankind in it, are distinguish'd into buyers and sellers, who either truck for, or buy commodities; particularly in books, where for money or exchange, we take our choice, and in our own election please our selves; mens judgments, as their appetites, are very different; the market's free to buy or cheapen; who buyes upon the sellers word, may be deceived; who chooseth ill deceives himself.

"I doe not promise for my book nor say 'tis good, but` here's variety, and each man (of his own pallat) is the certain judge: it may please some, to them 'tis good; by whom dis lik'd, to them as bad.

"When the gazets* are cry'd, we buy in expectation of some thing new, yet though the news be ne're so good, in three days time 'tis laid aside, though we were pleased with our peny worth: I cannot expect a better fortune in this composition; 'tis now expos'd to your censure; if it meet with generous patrons, I am oblig'd to serve you agen and better, from your incouragement. Farewel."

"The Cotsal Sheapheards, to the tune of Amarillis told her Swain.

"All ye that love, or who pretends,
Come listen to my sonnet,

Black-baggs, or vizards, who have friends,
Or English teags or bonnets,

See here our Shepheardess, and Swain,
How they make love on Cotsall plain.

Now Tom, if Suckling were alive,
And knew who Harry were to wive,
He'd shift his scene I trow,
From Charing.cross to Clarkenwel,
And sure as fine a tale would tell,
As he did long agoe.

But since his wit hath left no heir,
He sing my song of such a pair,
The like hath not been seen,
In all our markets round about
Within our city-walls, or out,

God bless the King and Queen."

* This word was generally used for all diurnals.

Bis. Amarillis why so coy,
Think'st thou that the winged boy,
Can never overtake thee?
Bis. Colin (no) I flye not him;

But thou who wilt forsake me.

Bis. Dearest I forsake my sheep,
And forget to eat or sleep,
To follow Amarillis;

And dying lye down at thy feet,
Since such thy cruel will is.

Treason makes a goodly show;
Black that's cover'd ore with snow;
The eye doth not discover;
I must have more assurance yet
Ere I become a lover.

In extreamest winter cold,

I hunt foxes from thy fould,
Nor will I marry Phillis;

But in thine abscence close mine eyes,
And call on Amarillis.

Yet thou didst the other day,
At our pastoralls in May,

Hear Coridon to jeere me;

Who said I was not yet so fair,
That Colin need to fear me.

Envy cannot make thee foul,
Nor fine words make fayrer foul;

Nor clownes can change their natures.

Ile dye to tell the world that you
Exceed them all in features.

Colin live, for I am thine,
Drive thy flocks up unto mine,
l'le yield to thy imbraces,
And chant thee pleasing rounddelayes,
Do thou foot comely paces.

Happy Collin, fayrest maid,
My grief and care, thou hast allay'd,
With words so sweetly charming,
Now on this banke, thou shalt confess
I fear no others harming.