IGH mounted on an ant, Nanus the tall Was thrown, alas! and got a deadly fall. Under th' unruly beast's proud feet he lies All torn; with much ado yet e'er he dies, He strains these words: Base envy, do laugh on, Thus did I fall, and thus fell Phaeton.

UPON VENUS PUTTING ON MARS'S ARMS.

HAT! Mars's sword! fair Cytherea, say,
Why art thou arm'd so desperately to-day?
Mars thou hast beaten naked, and, O, then,
What need'st thou put on arms against poor men?

P

UPON THE SAME.

ALLAS saw Venus arm'd and straight she cried,

66

Come, if thou dar'st, thus, thus let us be
tried."

"Why, fool!" says Venus, "thus provok'st thou me,
That being naked, thou know'st could conquer thee?"

UPON BISHOP ANDREWS'S PICTURE
BEFORE HIS SERMONS.

HIS reverend shadow cast that setting sun,
Whose glorious course through our horizon

run,

Left the dim face of this dull hemisphere, All one great eye, all drown'd in one great tear! Whose fair illustrious soul led his free thought Through learning's universe, and, vainly, sought Room for her spacious self, until at length

She found the way home; and, with holy strength, Snatch'd herself hence to heaven: fill'd a bright place, 'Mongst those immortal fires, and on the face

Of her great Maker fix'd her flaming eye,
There still to read true pure divinity.

And now that grave aspect hath deign'd to shrink
Into this less appearance, if you think

'Tis but a dead face art doth here bequeath,
Look on the following leaves, and see them breathe.

OUT OF MARTIAL.

OUR teeth thou had'st, that ranked in goodly state,

Kept thy mouth's gate.

The first blast of thy cough left two alone;

The second none.

This last cough, Elia, cough'd out all thy fear-
Th' hast left the third cough now no business here.

A SONG. OUT OF THE ITALIAN.

O thy lover,

Dear, discover

That sweet blush of thine, that shameth,

When the roses

It discloses,

All the flowers that nature nameth!

In free air,

Flow thy hair;

That no more summer's best dresses

Be beholden,

For their golden

Locks, to Phoebus' flaming tresses.

O, deliver

Love his quiver ;

From thy eyes he shoots his arrow,

Where Apollo

Cannot follow,

Feather'd with his mother's sparrows!

O, envy not,

That we die not,

Those dear lips, whose door encloses

All the Graces

In their places,

Brother pearls, and sister roses!

From these treasures

Of ripe pleasures,

One bright smile to clear the weather:

Earth and heaven,

Thus made even,

Both will be good friends together.

The air does woo thee,

Winds cling to thee;

Might a word once fly from out thee,

Storms and thunder

Would sit under,

And keep silence round about thee!

But if Nature's

Common creatures

So dear glories dare not borrow;

Yet thy beauty

Owes a duty

To my loving, ling'ring sorrow!

When, to end me,

Death shall send me

All his terrors, to affright me;

Thine eye's graces

Gild their faces,

And those terrors shall delight me!

When my dying

Life is flying,

Those sweet airs, that often slew me,

Shall revive me,

Or reprieve me,

And to many deaths renew me!

OUT OF THE ITALIAN.

OVE now no fire hath left him,
We two betwixt us have divided it;
Your eyes the light hath reft him ;

The heart commanding in my heart doth sit:

O, that poor love be not for ever spoil'd,
Let my heat to your light be reconciled!

So shall these flames, whose worth
Now all obscurèd lies,

Dress'd in those beams start forth,

And dance before your eyes.

Or else partake my flames,

I care not whether,

And so in mutual names,

O love, burn both together!