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OUT OF MARTIAL.
Four teeth thou hadst that rank'd in goodly state,
The first blast of thy cough left two alone,
The second, none.
This last cough, Ælia, cough'd out all thy fear,
UPON FORD'S TWO TRAGEDIES, "LOVE'S
SACRIFICE" AND "THE
Thou cheat'st us, Ford; mak'st one seem two by art: What is Love's Sacrifice but The Broken Heart?
I would be married, but I'd have no wife;
UPON THE FAIR ETHIOPIAN SENT TO A
Lo, here the fair Chariclia! in whom strove
So false a fortune, and so true a love!
Now, after all her toils by sea and land,
O may she but arrive at your white hand.
Her hopes are crown'd, only she fears that then
UPON VENUS PUTTING ON MARS'S ARMS.
What? Mars's sword? fair Cytherea say,
UPON THE SAME.
Pallas saw Venus armed, and straight she cried, '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?'
ON NANUS MOUNTED UPON AN ANT.
High mounted on an ant, Nanus the tall
Under th' unruly beast's proud feet he lies,
All torn; with much ado yet ere he dies,
Steps to the Temple.
[The Suspicion of Herod.]
Casting the times with their strong signs,
The sleeping tyrant's fond mistake,
Who fears (in vain) that He Whose birth
Means Heaven, should meddle with his Earth.
Muse! now the servant of soft loves no more,
Of language to my infant lips, ye best
Of confessors; whose throats answering his swords, Gave forth your blood for breath, spoke souls for words.
Great Anthony! Spain's well-beseeming pride,
To the believing world Fame boldly sings:
Deign thou to wear this humble wreath that bows,
Nor needs my Muse a blush, or these bright flowers Other than what their own blest beauties bring; They were the smiling sons of those sweet bowers, That drink the dew of life, whose deathless spring, Nor Syrian flame, nor Borean frost deflowers:
From whence heaven-labouring bees with busy wing, Suck hidden sweets, which, well digested, proves Immortal honey for the hive of loves.
Thou, whose strong hand with so transcendent worth,
That neither Rome, nor Athens can bring forth
Thy fame's full noise makes proud the patient Earth,
The Tyrrhene Seas and shores sound all the same,
Below the bottom of the great Abyss,
There where one centre reconciles all things,
Fast bound, since first he forfeited the skies.
The judge of torments, and the king of tears,
A gloomy mantle of dark flames; the tire
His eyes, the sullen dens of Death and Night,
Such his fell glances as the fatal light
Of staring comets, that look kingdoms dead.
Of Hell's own stink, a worser stench is spread.