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But if her milder influence move,
And gild the hopes of humble Love:
(Though heavens inauspicious eye
Lay blacke on Loves Nativitie;
Though every Diamond in Joves crowne
Fixt his forehead to a frowne,)
Her Eye a strong appeale can give,
Beauty smiles and Love shall live.

O if Love shall live, ô where,

But in her Eye, or in her Eare,
In her Brest, or in her Breath,
Shall I hide poore Love from Death?
For in the life ought else can give,
Love shall dye, although he live.

Or if Love shall dye, ô where,
But in her Eye, or in her Eare,
In her Breath, or in her Breast,
Shall I Build his funeral Nest?
While Love shall thus entombed lye,
Love shall live, although he dye.


Principi recèns natæ omen maternæ indolis.


Resce, ô dulcibus imputanda Divis,
O cresce, & propera, puella Princeps,
In matris propera venire partes.
Et cùm par breve fulminum mirorum,
Illinc Carolus, & Jacobus indè,
In patris faciles subire famam,
Ducent fata furoribus decoris;
Cùm terror sacer, Anglicig magnum
Murmur nominis increpabit omnem
Late Bosporon, Ottomanicásque
Non picto quatiet tremore Lunas ;
Te tunc altera, nec timenda paci,
Poscent prælia. Tu potens pudici
Vibratrix oculi, pios in hostes
Latè dulcia fata dissipabis.
O cùm flos tener ille, qui recenti
Pressus sidere jam sub ora ludit,
Olim fortior omne cuspidatos
Evolvet latus aureum per ignes;
Quig, imbellis adhuc, adultus olim,
Puris expatiabitur genarum
Campis imperiosior Cupido;
O quàm certa superbiore pennâ
Ibunt spicula, melleæque mortes,
Exultantibus hinc & inde turmis,
Quoquo jusseris, impigrè volabunt!
O quot corda calentium deorum

De te vulnera delicata discent!

O quot pectora Principum magistris
Fient molle negotium sagittis !

Nam quæ non poteris per arma ferri,
Cui matris sinus atque utrumque sidus
Magnorum patet officina Amorum?
Hinc sumas licet, & puella Princeps,
Quantacunque opus est tibi pharetra.
Centum sume Cupidines ab uno
Matris lumine, Gratiásque centum,
Et centum Veneres: adhuc manebunt
Centum mille Cupidines; manebunt
Ter centum Veneresque Gratiæque
Puro fonte superstites per ævum.

Out of the Italian.

A Song.

To thy Lover,
Deere, discover

That sweet blush of thine that shameth (When those Roses

It discloses)

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O deliver

Love his Quiver,

From thy Eyes he shoots his Arrowes, Where Apollo

Cannot follow:

Featherd with his Mothers Sparrowes.

O envy not

(That we dye not)

Those deere lips whose doore encloses
All the Graces

In their places,
Brother Pearles, and sister Roses.

From these treasures

Of ripe pleasures

One bright smile to cleere the weather. Earth and Heaven

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The aire does wooe thee,
Winds cling to thee


Might a word once flye from out thee, Storme and Thunder

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When my dying
Life is flying,

Those sweet Aires that often slew mee Shall revive mee,

Or reprive mee,

And to many Deaths renew mee.


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 heat commanding in my Heart doth sit.
O! that poore Love be not for ever spoyled,
Let my Heat to your Light be reconciled.

So shall these flames, whose worth
Now all obscured lyes,

(Drest in those Beames) start forth
And dance before your eyes.

Or else partake my flames (I care not whither)

And so in mutuall Names

Of Love, burne both together.


Out of the Italian.

Ould any one the true cause find

How Love came nak't, a Boy, and blind?

'Tis this; listning one day too long,

To th' Syrens in my Mistris Song,

The extasie of a delight

So much o're-mastring all his might,

To that one Sense, made all else thrall,

And so he lost his Clothes, eyes, heart and all.

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