F I FREELY MAY DISCOVER

IF

What would please me in my lover : I would have her fair and witty, Savouring more of Court than City; A little proud, but full of pity; Light and humorous in her toying, Oft building hopes, and soon destroying, Long but sweet in the enjoying : Neither too easy nor too hard, All extremes I would have barr'd. She should be allow'd her passions, So they were but used as fashions : Sometimes froward, and then frowning; Sometimes sickish, and then swouning; Every fit with change still crowning : Purely jealous I would have her, Then only constant when I crave her : 'Tis a virtue should not save her. Thus, nor her delicates would cloy me, Nor her peevishness annoy me.

F your

HER MAN

trouble, BEN! to ease me,

Of will tell what man would please me.

I would have him, if I could,
Noble, or of greater blood,-
Titles, I confess, do take me,
And a woman God did make me ;
French to boot, at least in fashion,

And his manners of that nation.
Young I'd have him too, and fair,
Yet a man; with crisped hair,
Cast in thousand snares and rings
For Love's fingers and his wings,
Chestnut colour,- or, more slack,
Gold upon a ground of black;
Venus' and Minerva's eyes,
For he must look wanton-wise;
Eye-brows bent like Cupid's bow;
Front an ample field of snow;
Even nose; and cheeks withal
Smooth as is the billiard-ball;
Chin as woolly as the peach;
And his lip should kissing teach,
Till he cherish'd too much beard
And made love, or me, afear'd.
He should have a hand as soft
As the down, and show it oft;
Skin as smooth as any rush,
And so thin to see a blush
Rising through it, ere it came ;
All his blood should be a flame
Quickly fired, as in beginners

In Love's school, and yet no sinners.
'Twere too long to speak of all :
What we harmony do call

In a body should be there;

Well he should his clothes too wear,

Yet no tailor help to make him,—

Dress'd, you still for a man should take him,

And not think he had eat a stake
Or were set up in a brake.
Valiant he should be, as fire
Showing danger more than ire;
Bounteous as the clouds to earth;
And as honest as his birth;

All his actions to be such

As to do no thing too much,-
Nor o'erpraise nor yet condemn,
Nor out-value nor contemn,
Nor do wrongs nor wrongs receive,
Nor tie knots nor knots unweave;
And from baseness to be free,
As he durst love Truth and Me.
Such a man, with every part,
I could give my very heart:
But of one if short he came,

I can rest me where I am.

IN THE PERSON OF WOMANKIND

MEN! if you love us, play no more

The fools or tyrants with your friends,
To make us still sing o'er and o'er

Our own false praises, for your ends :
We have both wits and fancies too;
And if we must, let's sing of you!

Nor do we doubt but that we can,

If we would search with care and pain, Find some one good in some one man; So, going thorough all your strain,

We shall at last of parcels make

One good enough

for a song's sake.

And as a cunning painter takes,

In any curious piece you see,

More pleasure while the thing he makes
Than when 'tis made, why so will we :
And having pleased our art we'll try
To make a new, and hang that by.

BEGGING ANOTHER

'OR LOVE'S SAKE kiss me once again!

FOR

I long and should not beg in vain ;

Here 's none to spy thee:

Why do you doubt or stay?

I'll taste as lightly as the bee,

That doth but touch his flower and flies away.

One more! and, 'faith, I will be gone :

Can he that loves ask less than one?

Nay! you may err in this

And all your bounty wrong:

This could be call'd but half a kiss ;

What were but once to do we should do long.

I will but mend the last, and tell
Where, how, it would have relish'd well;
Join lip to lip, and try!

Each suck the other's breath,

And whilst our tongues perplexed lie

Let who will think us dead, or wish our death.

SONG OF SATYRS

A CATCH

UZZ! quoth the Blue-Fly,
Hum! quoth the Bee;
Buzz and hum! they cry,
And so do we.

In his ear in his nose!

Thus, do you see?

They tickle them.

He eat the Dormouse

Else it was he.

THOU

HER GLOVE

HOU more than most sweet Glove
Unto my more sweet Love!

Suffer me to store with kisses
This empty lodging that now misses
The pure rosy hand that wore thee,
Whiter than the kid that bore thee.
Thou art soft, but that was softer.
Cupid's self hath kiss'd it ofter
Than e'er he did his mother's doves,
Supposing her the Queen of Loves
That was thy mistress, Best of Gloves!