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Out of Catullus.

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Ome and let us live my Deare,

Let us love and never feare,
What the sowrest Fathers say:
Brightest Sol that dyes to day
Lives againe as blith to morrow ;
But if we darke sons of sorrow
Set, ô then, how long a Night
Shuts the Eyes of our short light!
Then let amorous kisses dwell
On our lips, begin and tell
A thousand, and a Hundred score,
An Hundred, and a Thousand more,
Till another Thousand smother
That, and that wipe of[f] another.
Thus at last when we have numbred
Many a Thousand, many a Hundred,
Wee'l confound the reckoning quite,
And lose our selves in wild delight :
While our joyes so multiply,
As shall mocke the envious eye.

Ad Principem nondum natum.

Ascere nunc;

N

, ?

ô nunc! quid enim, puer alme, moraris? Nulla tibi dederit dulcior hora diem. Ergone tot tardos (ô lente!) morabere menses?

Rex redit. Ipse veni, & dic bone, Gratus ades.
Nam quid Ave nostrum? quid nostri verba triumphi?

Vagitu meliùs dixeris ista tuo.
At maneas tamen : & nobis nova causa triumphi

Sic demum fueris; nec nova causa tamen:
Nam, quoties Carolo novus aut nova nascitur inf[a]ns,

Revera toties Carolus ipse redit.

Wishes.

To his (supposed) Mistresse.

W

Ho ere she be,

That not impossible she
That shall command my heart and me;
Where ere she lye,
Lock't up from mortall Eye,
In shady leaves of Destiny;
Till that ripe Birth
Of studied fate stand forth,
And teach her faire steps to our Earth;

Till that Divine
Idæa, take a shrine
Of Chrystall flesh, through which to shine;
Meet you her my wishes,
Bespeake her to my blisses,
And be ye callid my absent kisses. .

I wish her Beauty,
That owes not all his Duty
To gaudy Tire, or glistring shoo-ty.
Something more than
Taffata or Tissew can,
Or rampant feather, or rich fan.
More than the spoyle
Of shop, or silkewormes Toyle,
Or a bought blush, or a set smile.

A face thats best
By its owne beauty drest,
And can alone command the rest.

A face made up,
Out of no other shop
Than what natures white hand sets ope.
A cheeke where Youth,
And Blood, with Pen of Truth
Write, what the Reader sweetly ru'th.
A Cheeke where growes
More than a Morning Rose :
Which to no Boxe his being owes.
Lipps, where all Day
A lovers kisse may play,
Yet carry nothing thence away.
Lookes that oppresse
Their richest Tires, but dresse
And cloath their simplest Nakednesse.
Eyes, that displaces
The Neighbour Diamond, and out-faces
That Sunshine, by their own sweet Graces.
Tresses, that weare
Jewells, but to declare
How much themselves more pretious are.
Whose native Ray,
Can tame the wanton Day
Of Gems, that in their bright shades play.
Each Ruby there,
Or Pearle that dare appeare,
Be its own blush, be its own Teare.
A well tam'd Heart,
For whose more noble smart,
Love may be long chusing a Dart.
Eyes, that bestow
Full quivers on loves Bow;
Yet
pay
lesse Arrowes than they owe.

Smiles, that can warme
The blood, yet teach a charme,
That Chastity shall take no harme.
Blushes, that bin
The burnish of no sin,
Nor flames of ought too hot within.
Joyes, that confesse,
Vertue their Mistresse,
And have no other head to dresse.

Feares, fond and fight,
As the coy Brides, when Night
First does the longing Lover right.
Teares, quickly filed,
And vaine, as those are shed
For a dying Maydenhead.
Dayes, that need borrow,
No part of their good Morrow,
From a fore spent night of sorrow.
Dayes, that in spight
Of Darkenesse, by the Light
Of a cleere mind are Day all Night.
Nights, sweet as they,
Made short by Lovers play,
Yet long by th' absence of the Day.
Life, that dares send
A challenge to his end,
And when it comes say Welcome Friend.
Sydnæan showers
Of sweet discourse, whose powers
Can Crown old Winters head with flowers.
Soft silken Hours,
Open sunnes, shady Bowers;
'Bove all, Nothing within that lowers.

What ere Delight
Can make Dayes forehead bright,
Or give Downe to the Wings of Night.
In her whole frame,
Have Nature all the Name,
Art and ornament the shame.
Her Aattery,
Picture and Poesy,
Her counsell her owne vertue be.
I wish, her store
Of worth may leave her poore
Of wishes; And I wish

No more.
Now if Time knowes
That her whose radiant Browes
Weave them a Garland of my vowes,
Her whose just Bayes,
My future hopes can raise,
A trophie to her present praise ;
Her that dares be,
What these Lines wish to see :
I seeke no further, it is she.
'Tis she, and here
Lo I uncloath and cleare,
My wishes cloudy Character.
May she enjoy it,
Whose merit dare apply it,
But modestly dares still deny it.
Such worth as this is
Shall fixe my Aying wishes,
And determine them to kisses.
Let her full Glory,
My fancyes, Aly before ye,
Be ye my fictions; But her story.

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