TEARS At the grave of Sir Albertus Morton, who was buried at Southampton; WEPT BY SIR H, WOTTON. SILENCE, in truth, would fpeak my forrow best, But time to bid him, whom I lov'd, farewel. Oh my unhappy lines! you that before Have ferved my youth to vent fome wanton cries, And now, congeal'd with grief, can scarce implore Strength to accent! Here my Albertus lies! This is the fable ftone, this is the cave And womb of earth that doth his corpfe embrace. While others fing his praise, let, me engrave These bleeding numbers to adorn the place. Here will I paint the character of woe, Where though I mourn my matchless lofs alone, And none between my weakness judge and me; Yet e'en these penfive walls allow my moan, Whofe doleful echoes to my plaints agree. But is he gone? and dwell I rhyming here Dwell thou in endless light, discharged foul, Freed now from nature's and from fortune's trust, While on this fluent globe my glass shall roll, And run the rest of my remaining dust. Upon the Death of Sir A. Morton's Wife. He firft deceased; she, for a little, tried WILLIAM CARTWRIGHT. An author much admired by his cotemporaries. He died in 1643. See retrosp. review typ. 160 SONG IN THE LADY ERRANT. To carve our loves in myrtle rinds, And yet not know how, whence, or why; A lover's abfence fay. LOVE BUT ONE. SEE thefe two little brooks that flowly creep But, fince it broke itself, and double glides, O Chloris, think how this presents thy love, We happy fhepherds thence did thrive, and 'prove, But fince 't hath been imparted to one more, But think withal what honour thou haft loft, Which we did to thy full ftream pay. Whilft now, that fwain that fwears he loves thee most, Slakes but his thirst, and goes away! FALSEHOOD. STILL do the ftars impart their light The ftreams ftill glide and conftant are; Untrue I find, Which carelessly Neglects to be Like ftream or fhadow, hand or star. LESBIA ON HER SPARROW. TELL me not of joys, there's none Now my little fparrow's gone; He, juft as you, Would figh and woo, He would chirp and flatter me; He would hang the wing a while, Till at length he saw me smile, Lord! how fullen he would be! He would catch a crumb, and then He from my lip, |