ROBERT HEATH.

Author of "Claraftella," a collection of poems, in 12mo, printed in 1650.

SONG ANACREONTIC.

INVEST my head with fragrant rofe,
That on fair Flora's bofom grows!
Diftend my veins with purple juice,
That mirth may through my foul diffuse.

'Tis wine and love, and love in wine
Inspires our youth with flames divine.

Thus, crown'd with Paphian myrtle, I
In Cyprian fhades will bathing lie;
Whofe fnows if too much cooling, then
Bacchus fhall warm my blood again.

'Tis wine and love, and love in wine
Inspires our youth with flames divine.

Life's fhort and winged pleafures fly;
Who mourning live, do living die.
On down and floods then, swan-like, I
Will ftretch my limbs, and finging die.

'Tis wine and love, and love in wine,
Infpires our youth with flames divine.

STANZAS

ON CLARA STELLA SAYING SHE WOULD COMMIT HERSELF TO A NUNNERY.

STAY, Claraftella, prithee stay!
Recal those frantic vows again!
Wilt thou thus caft thyself away,
As well as me, in fond difdain?
Wilt thou be cruel to thyfelf? chastise
Thy harmless body, 'cause thy powerful eyes
Have charm'd my fenfes by a strange surprise?

Is it a fin to be beloved?

If but the cause you could remove
Soon the effect would be removed;
Where beauty is, there will be love.
Nature, that wifely nothing made in vain,
Did make you lovely to be lov'd again,
And, when fuch beauty tempts, can love refrain?

When Heaven was prodigal to you,

And you with beauty's glory ftored,

He made you like himself for view,

To be beheld and then adored.

Why should the gold then fear to see that fun
That form'd it pure? Why should you live a nun,
And hide those rays Heav'n gave to you alone?

Thyfelf a holy temple art,

Where love shall teach us both to pray; I'll make an altar of my heart,

And incenfe on thy lips I'll lay.

Thy mouth shall be my oracle, and then
For beads we'll tell our kiffes o'er again,
Till they, breath'd from our fouls, fhall cry, amen,

ROBERT HERRICK,

Author of a collection of poems published under the title of Hefperides, Octavo, 1648,--The volume contains two little pieces, “the Primrose" and "the Inquiry," which are printed in Carew's poems.

A MEDITATION FOR HIS MISTRESS.

You are a tulip, feen to-day,

But, dearest, of so short a ftay,

That where you grew fearce man can say,

You are a lovely July-flower,

Yet one rude wind, or ruffling shower,
Will force you hence, and in an hour.

You are a sparkling rofe i'th' bud;
Yet loft, ere that chafte flesh and blood
Can fhew where you or grew, or stood.

You are a dainty violet,

Yet wither'd ere you can be fet

Within the virgin's coronet.

all flow'rs among,

But die you muft, fair maid, ere long,
As he, the maker of this song.

SONNET.

Aм I defpis'd because you say,
And I believe, that I am grey ?
Know, lady, you have but your day,
And night will come, and men will swear
Time hath spilt fnow upon your hair.

Then, when in your glass you seek,
And find no rofe-buds in your cheek;
No, nor the bed to give you fhew,
Where fuch a rare carnation grew,
And such a smiling tulip too,

O then too late in close your chamber keeping, It will be told

That you are old

By thofe true tears you're weeping.

THE MAD MAID's SONG.

GOOD-morrow to the day so fair;

Good-morrow, Sir, to you;

Good-morrow to mine own torn hair,
Bedabbled with the dew.