Out of Virgil,

In the praise of the Spring.

Α'

LL Trees, all leavy Groves confesse the Spring
Their gentle friend, then, then the lands begin
To swell with forward pride, and seed desire
To generation; Heavens Almighty Sire
Melts on the Bosome of his Love, and powres
Himselfe into her lap in fruitfull showers.
And by a soft insinuation, mixt

With earths large Masse, doth cherish and assist
Her weake conceptions; No lone shade, but rings
With chatting Birds delicious murmurings.
Then Venus mild instinct (at set times) yields
The Herds to kindly meetings, then the fields
(Quick with warme Zephyres lively breath) lay forth
Their pregnant Bosomes in a fragrant Birth.
Each body's plump and jucy, all things full
Of supple moisture: no coy twig but will
Trust his beloved bosome to the Sun
(Growne lusty now;) No Vine so weake and young
That feares the foule-mouth'd Auster or those stormes
That the Southwest-wind hurries in his Armes,
But hasts her forward Blossomes, and layes out
Freely layes out her leaves: Nor doe I doubt
But when the world first out of Chaos sprang
So smil'd the Dayes, and so the tenor ran
Of their felicity. A spring was there,
An everlasting spring, the jolly yeare

Led round in his great circle; No winds Breath
As then did smell of Winter, or of Death.

When Lifes sweet Light first shone on Beasts, and when
From their hard Mother Earth, sprang hardy men,
When Beasts tooke up their lodging in the Wood,
Starres in their higher Chambers: never cou'd
The tender growth of things endure the sence
Of such a change, but that the Heav'ns Indulgence
Kindly supplyes sick Nature, and doth mold
A sweetly temper'd meane, nor hot nor cold.

With a Picture sent to a Friend.

I

Paint so ill my peece had need to be
Painted againe by some good Poesie.
I write so ill, my slender Line is scarce
So much as th' Picture of a well-lim'd verse:
Yet may the love I send be true, though I
Send nor true Picture, nor true Poesie.
Both which away, I should not need to feare,
My Love, or Feign'd or painted should appeare.

The beginning of Helidorus.

He smiling Morne had newly wak't the Day, And tipt the Mountaines with a tender ray: When on a hill (whose high Imperious brow Lookes downe, and sees the humble Nile below Licke his proud feet, and haste into the seas Through the great mouth that's nam'd from Hercules) A band of men, rough as the Armes they wore Look't round, first to the sea, then to the shore. The shore that shewed them what the sea deny'd, Hope of a prey. There to the maine land ty'd A ship they saw, no men she had; yet prest Appear'd with other lading, for her brest Deep in the groaning waters wallowed

Up to the third Ring; o're the shore was spread
Death's purple triumph, on the blushing ground
Lifes late forsaken houses all lay drown'd
In their owne bloods deare deluge, some new dead,
Some panting in their yet warme ruines bled:
While their affrighted soules, now wing'd for flight
Lent them the last flash of her glimmering light.
Those yet fresh streames which crawled every where
Shew'd that sterne warre had newly bath'd him there.
Nor did the face of this disaster show

Markes of a fight alone, but feasting too,
A miserable and a monstruous feast,
Where hungry warre had made himself a Guest:
And comming late had eat up Guests and all,
Who prov'd the feast to their owne funerall, &c.

Out of the Greeke
Cupid's Cryer.

Ove is lost, nor can his Mother
Her little fugitive discover:

She seekes, she sighes, but no where spyes him;
Love is lost; and thus shee cryes him.
O yes! if any happy eye,
This roaving wanton shall descry;
Let the finder surely know
Mine is the wagge; Tis I that owe
The winged wand'rer; and that none
May thinke his labour vainely gone,
The glad descryer shall not misse,
To tast the Nectar of a kisse
From Venus lipps; But as for him
That brings him to me, he shall swim
In riper joyes more shall be his
(Venus assures him) than a kisse.
But lest your eye discerning slide,
These markes may be your judgements guide;
His skin as with a fiery blushing
High-colour'd is; His eyes still flushing
With nimble flames, and though his mind
Be ne're so curst, his Tongue is kind:
For never were his words in ought
Found the pure issue of his thought.
The working Bees soft melting Gold,
That which their waxen Mines enfold,
Flow not so sweet as doe the Tones
Of his tun'd accents; but if once
His anger kindle, presently

It boyles out into cruelty,

And fraud: He makes poor mortalls hurts
The objects of his cruell sports.
With dainty curles his froward face
Is crown'd about; But ô what place,
What farthest nooke of lowest Hel!
Feeles not the strength, the reaching spell

Of his small hand? Yet not so small
As 'tis powerfull therewithall.

Though bare his skin, his mind he covers,
And like a saucy Bird he hovers
With wanton wing, now here, now there,
'Bout men and women, nor will spare
Till at length he perching rest,
In the closet of their brest.

His weapon is a little Bow,

Yet such a one as (Jove knows how)
Ne're suffred, yet his little Arrow,
Of Heavens high'st Archies to fall narrow.
The Gold that on his Quiver smiles,
Deceives mens feares with flattering wiles.
But ô (too well my wounds can tell)
With bitter shaft's 'tis sauc't too well.
He is all cruell, cruell all;

His Torch Imperious though but small
Makes the Sunne (of flames the fire)
Worse then Sun-burnt in his fire.
Wheresoe're you chance to find him
Cea[z]e him, bring him, (but first bind him)
Pitty not him, but feare thy selfe
Though thou see the crafty Elfe,
Tell down his Silver-drops unto thee,
They'r counterfeit, and will undoe thee.
With baited smiles if he display

His fawning cheeks, looke not that way.
If he offer sugred kisses,
Start, and say, The Serpent hisses.
Draw him, drag him, though he pray
Wooe, intreat, and crying say
Prethee, sweet now let me go,
Here's my Quiver Shafts and Bow,
I'le give thee all, take all, take heed
Lest his kindnesse make thee bleed.

What e're it be Love offers, still presume
That though it shines, 'tis fire and will consume.

On Nanus mounted upon an Ant.

H

Igh mounted on an Ant Nanus the tall Was thrown alas, and got a deadly fall. Under th'unruly Beasts proud feet he lies All torne; with much adoe yet e're he dyes, Hee straines these words; Base Envy, doe, laugh on. Thus did I fall, and thus fell Phaethon.

Upon Venus putting on Mars his Armes.

W

Hat? Mars his sword? faire Cytherea say, Why art thou arm'd so desperately to day? Mars thou hast beaten naked, and ô then What need'st thou put on arms against poore men?

Upon the same.

Palle

Allas saw Venus arm'd, and streight she cry'd, Come if thou dar'st, thus, thus let us be try'd. Why foole! saies Venus, thus provok'st thou mee, That being nak't, thou know'st could conquer thee?