A BALLAD UPON A WEDDING1.

I tell thee, Dick, where I have been,
Where I the rarest things have seen;
O, things without compare!
Such sights again cannot be found
In any place on English ground,
Be it at wake or fair.

At Charing Cross, hard by the way,
Where we (thou know'st) do sell our hay,
There is a house with stairs;

And there did I see coming down
Such folk as are not in our town,
Forty at least, in pairs.

Amongst the rest, one pest'lent fine
(His beard no bigger though than thine)
Walked on before the rest :

Our landlord looks like nothing to him:
The King (God bless him) 'twould undo him,
Should he go still so drest.

At Course-a-Park, without all doubt,
He should have first been taken out
By all the maids i'th' town:
Though lusty Roger there had been,
Or little George upon the Green,
Or Vincent of the Crown.

But wot you what? the youth was going
To make an end of all his wooing;

The parson for him stay'd

Yet by his leave (for all his haste)

He did not so much wish all past

(Perchance), as did the maid.

1 The wedding was that of Roger Boyle, Lord Broghill (afterwards Earl of Orrery), with Lady Margaret Howard. Mr. Hazlitt thinks that the Ballad is addressed to Lovelace.

The maid (and thereby hangs a tale),
For such a maid no Whitsun-ale

Could ever yet produce:

No grape, that 's kindly ripe, could be
So round, so plump, so soft as she,
Nor half so full of juice.

Her finger was so small, the ring,
Would not stay on, which they did bring,
It was too wide a peck:
And to say truth (for out it must)
It looked like the great collar (just)
About our young colt's neck.

Her feet beneath her petticoat,
Like little mice, stole in and out,
As if they fear'd the light:

But O she dances such a way!
No sun upon an Easter-day

Is half so fine a sight.

Her cheeks so rare a white was on,

No daisy makes comparison,

(Who sees them is undone),

For streaks of red were mingled there,
Such as are on a Catherine pear
The side that 's next the sun.

Her lips were red, and one was thin,
Compar'd to that was next her chin
(Some bee had stung it newly);

But, Dick, her eyes so guard her face;
I durst no more upon them gaze

Than on the sun in July.

Her mouth so small, when she does speak, Thou 'dst swear her teeth her words did break,

That they might passage get;

But she so handled still the matter,

They came as good as ours, or better,

And are not spent a whit.

Just in the nick the cook knocked thrice, And all the waiters in a trice

His summons did obey;

Each serving-man, with dish in hand,
Marched boldly up, like our trained band,
Presented, and away.

When all the meat was on the table,
What man of knife or teeth was able
To stay to be intreated?

And this the very reason was,
Before the parson could say grace,
The company was seated.

The business of the kitchen's great,
For it is fit that men should eat ;
Nor was it there denied:

Passion o' me, how I run on!
There's that that would be thought upon
(I trow) besides the bride.

Now hats fly off, and youths carouse;
Healths first go round, and then the house,
The bride's came thick and thick:
And when 'twas nam'd another's health,
Perhaps he made it hers by stealth;
And who could help it, Dick?

On the sudden up they rise and dance;
Then sit again and sigh, and glance:
Then dance again and kiss:

Thus several ways the time did pass,
Whilst ev'ry woman wished her place,
And every man wished his.

TRUTH IN LOVE.

Of thee, kind boy, I ask no red and white,
To make up my delight:

No odd becoming graces,

Black eyes, or little know-not-whats in faces;
Make me but mad enough, give me good store
Of love for her I court:

I ask no more,

'Tis love in love that makes the sport.

There's no such thing as that we beauty call,
It is mere cosenage all ;

For though some long ago

Liked certain colours mingled so and so,
That doth not tie me now from choosing new;
If I a fancy take

To black and blue,

That fancy doth it beauty make.

'Tis not the meat, but 'tis the appetite
Makes eating a delight,

And if I like one dish

More than another, that a pheasant is;
What in our watches, that in us is found,—
So to the height and nick

We up be wound,

No matter by what hand or trick.

VOL. II.

THE DANCE.

Love, Reason, Hate, did once bespeak
Three mates to play at barley-break;
Love Folly took; and Reason, Fancy;

And Hate consorts with Pride; so dance they.
Love coupled last, and so it fell,
That Love and Folly were in hell.

N

They break, and Love would Reason meet,
But Hate was nimbler on her feet;
Fancy looks for Pride, and thither
Hies, and they two hug together:
Yet this new coupling still doth tell,
That Love and Folly were in hell.

The rest do break again, and Pride
Hath now got Reason on her side;
Hate and Fancy meet, and stand
Untouched by Love in Folly's hand;
Folly was dull, but Love ran well;
So Love and Folly were in hell.

ORSAMES' SONG IN 'AGLAURA.'

Why so pale and wan, fond lover?
Prithee, why so pale?

Will, when looking well can't move her,
Looking ill prevail?

Prithee, why so pale?

Why so dull and mute, young sinner?
Prithee, why so mute?

Will, when speaking well can't win her,
Saying nothing do't?

Prithee, why so mute?

Quit, quit, for shame, this will not move: This cannot take her.

If of herself she will not love,

Nothing can make her:

The devil take her!