From the Golden Age, by Thomas Heywood..

1611.

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SYLVIA.

DELIA.

S.

D.

S.

Tell me what you thinke on earth

The greatest blisse?

Riches, honor, and high birth.

Ah what is this,

If love be banished the heart,

The joy of nature, not of art?
Whats honor, worth, or high descent,
Or ample wealth,

If cares do breed us discontent,
Or want of health?

D. It is the order of the fates,

CHOR.

CHOR.

CHOR.

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BY VENUS AND THE GRACES.

Come, lovely boy, unto my court,
And leave these uncouth woods, and all
That feed thy fancy with loves gall,

But keepe away the honey and the sport.

Come unto me,

And with variety

Thou shalt be fed, which nature loves and I.

There is no musique in a voice

That is but one and still the same.

Inconstancy is but a name

To fright poore lovers from a better choice.

Come then to me, &c.

Orpheus that on Euridice

Spent all his love, on others scorne,
Now on the bankes of Heber torne,
Finds the reward of foolish constancy.

Come then to me

And sigh no more for one love lost,
I have a thousand Cupids here,
Shall recompence with better cheere
Thy mis-spent labours and thy better cost.
Come then to me-

From the same.

E 2

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Сно.

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What need we use many beseeches,

Or trouble our brain with long speeches;
If we love, tis enough,

Hang poetical stuff,

As the rule of honesty teaches.

If we love, &c.

Why should we stand whining like fools,

Or woe by platonical rules;

If they love, we'll repayt,

If not, let em sayt,

What need they the help of the schools.
If they love, &c.

But they must be won by romances,
And that by verse and fine dances :

A third do's delight

In a song, yet at night

You must crack a string which she fancies.

If they love, &c.

This must be extolled to the sky

That you get, do but flatter and lye:

But that ladis for me,

That loves fine and free,

As real and ready as I.

But that ladis for me, &c.

From the English Rogue, by T. Thompson.

1668.

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Fond Love, no more

Will I adore

Thy feigned Deity.

Go throw thy darts

At simple hearts,

And prove thy victory.

Whilst I do keep

My harmless sheep,

Love hath no power on me.

Tis idle soules

Which he controules,

The busie man is free.

From Loves Labyrinth, or the Royal Shep

herdess, by Tho. Forde Philothal.

1660.

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Thine eyes to me like sunnes appeare,
Or brighter starres their light,
Which makes it summer all the yeare,

Or else a day of night:

But truely I do think they are

But eyes and neither sunne nor starre,

Thy brow is as the milky way,
Whereon the gods might trace
Thy lips ambrosia, I dare say,
Or nectar of thy face.

But to speake truely, I doe vowe,
They are but womans lips and browe,

Thy cheeke it is a mingled bath
Of lillyes and of roses;

But here theres no man power hath
To gather loves fresh posies.
Beleeve it here the flowers that bud,
Are but a womans flesh and blood.

Thy nose a promontory faire,
Thy necke a necke of land;
At natures giftes that are so rare,
All men amazed do stand.

But to the cleerer judgment, those
Are but a womans necke and nose.

For foure lines in passion I can dye,
As is the lovers guise,
And dabble too in poetry,

Whilst love possest the wise.

As greatest statesmen, or as those

That know love best, get him in prose.

From the Variety. A Comedy. 1649,

SONG.

Not hee that knows how to acquire,

But to enjoy, is blest;

Nor does our happinesse consist

In motion, but in rest.

The