LOVE'S WORLD. N each Man's Heart that doth begin Yet, as the Earth may fometimes shake Stoll'n into mine, caufe Tremblings there. My Flora was my Sun, for as Their Light and Grace, as Stars do thence. My Hopes I call my Moon; for they Sometimes it would be full, and then My Thoughts, caufe infinite they be, My burning Flame and hot Defire Which hath as yet fo fecret been ; No Kitchen Fire, nor eating Flame, But, as it plainly doth appear, My Fancy was the Air, moft free Big with Chimera's, Vapours here The Sea's my Mind, which calm would be Is troubled like a Lover's Mind. Within it Rocks and Shallows be, But in this World it were good Reason Long Abfence in far distant Place Diverfity of Weather came From what she did, and thence had Name; Some Sometimes fhe'd frown, and fometimes weep, But foft my Mufe, the World is wide, SONG. WHY fo pale and wan, fond Lover? Prethee why fo pale? Will, when looking well can't move her, Prethee why fo pale? Why fo dull and mute, young Sinner? Will, when speaking well can't win her, Prethee why fo mute? Quit, quit for Shame! this will not move, If of her felf fhe will not love, SONNET I I. DOST fee how unregarded now That Piece of Beauty paffes? There was a time when I did vow To that alone; But mark the Fate of Faces; That That Red and White works now no more on me, II. And yet the Face continues good, Am ftill the felf-fame Flesh and Blood, As apt to melt And fuffer from thofe Fires; Oh! fome kind Power unriddle where it lyes, III. She every Day her Man does kill, And I as often die; Neither her Power then, nor my Will Can queftion'd be, What is the Mystery? Sure Beauty's Empires, like to greater States, F SONNET II. I. Of thec, kind Boy, I ask no Red and White To make up my Delight, No odd becoming Graces, Black Eyes, or little know-not-whats, in Faces; I ask no more; 'Tis Love in Love that makes the Sport. II. There's no fuch thing as that we Beauty call, For, tho' fome long ago Lik'd certain Colours mingl'd fo and fo, To black and blue, That Fancy doth it Beauty make. III. Tis not the Meat, but 'tis the Appetite And if I like one Dish More than another, That a Pheasant is; We up be wound. No matter by what Hand or Trick. SONNET III I. H! for fome honeft Lover's Ghost, OH Some kind unbody'd Poft Sent from the Shades below; Whether the nobler Chaplets wear, II. For what-foe'er they tell us here To make those Sufferings dear; T'have loy'd alone will not fuffice, And have our Loves enjoy'd. III. What |