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Beholding one in three, and three in one,
A Trinitie, to shine in unitie;

The gladdest light, darke man can thinke upon;
O grant it me!

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A HYMNE

ON THE NATIVITIE OF MY SAVIOR.

I SING the birth was born to night,
The Author both of life and light;

The angels so did sound it,
And like the ravish'd sheep'erds said,
Who saw the light, and were afraid,

Yet search'd, and true they found it.
The Sonne of God, th' Eternall King,
That did us all salvation bring,

And freed the soule from danger;
Hee whom the whole world could not take,
The Word, which Heaven and Earth did make,
Was now laid in a manger.

The Father's wisedome will'd it so,
The Sonne's obedience knew no no,

Both wills were in one stature;
And as that wisedome had decreed,
The Word was now made flesh indeed,

And tooke on him our nature.

What comfort by him doe wee winne?
Who made himselfe the price of sinne,
To make us heires of glory?
To see this babe all innocence;
A martyr borne in our defence;

Can man forget this storie?

A

CELEBRATION OF CHARIS,

IN TEN LYRICK PEECES.

1. HIS EXCUSE FOR LOVING.

LET it not your wonder move,
Lesse your laughter, that I love.
Though I now write fiftie yeares,
I have had, and have my peeres ;
Poets, though devine, are men:
Some have lov'd as old agen.
And it is not alwayes face,

Clothes, or fortune, gives the grace;
Or the feature, or the youth:
But the language, and the truth,
With the ardour, and the passion,
Gives the lover weight and fashion.
If you then will read the storie,
First, prepare you to be sorie,
That you never knew till now,
Either whom to love, or how:
But be glad, as soone with me,
When you know, that this is she,
Of whose beautie it was sung,
She shall make the old man young,
Keepe the middle age at stay,
And let nothing high decay,
Till she be the reason why,
All the world for love may die.

II. HOW HE SAW HER.

I BEHELD her on a day
When her looke out-flourisht May:
And her dressing did out-brave
All the pride the fields then have:

Farre I was from being stupid,
For I ran and call'd on Cupid;
"Love, if thou wilt ever see
Marke of glorie, come with me;
Where's thy quiver? bend thy bow:
Here's a shaft, thou art too slow!"
And (withall) I did untie
Every cloud about his eye;
But he had not gain'd his sight
Sooner, then he lost his might,
Or his courage; for away
Strait hee ran, and durst not stay,
Letting bow and arrow fall;
Nor for any threat, or call,

Could be brought once back to looke,
I, foole-hardie, there up tooke
Both the arrow he had quit,

And the bow, which thought to hit
This my object. But she threw
Such a lightning (as I drew)
At my face, that tooke my sight,
And my motion from me quite;
So that there I stood a stone,
Mock'd of all: and call'd of one

(Which with griefe and wrath I heard) Cupid's statue with a beard,

Or else one that plaid his ape,

In a Hercules his shape.

[ride.

That they still were to run by her side,
Through swords, through seas, whether she would

Doe but looke on her eyes, they doe light
All that Love's world compriseth!
Doe but looke on her haire, it is bright
As Love's starre when it riseth!
Doe but marke, her forhead's smoother
Then words that sooth her!
And from her arched browes, such a grace
Sheds it selfe through the face,

As alone there triumphs to the life
All the gaine, all the good, of the elements' strife.

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III. WHAT HEE SUFFERED.

AFTER many scornes like these,
Which the prouder beauties please,
She content was to restore

Eyes and limbes; to hurt me more :
And would, on conditions, be
Reconcil'd to love and me:
First, that I must kneeling yeeld
Both the bow and shaft I held
Unto her; which Love might take
At her hand, with oath, to make
Mee the scope of his next draught,
Aymed with that selfe-same shaft.
He no sooner heard the law,
But the arrow home did draw,
And (to gaine her by his art)
Left it sticking in my heart :
Which when she beheld to bleed,
She repented of the deed,

And would faine have chang'd the fate,
But the pittie comes too late.
Looser-like, now, all my wreake
Is, that I have leave to speake,
And in either prose, or song,
To revenge me with my tongue,
Which how dexterously I doe,
Heare and make example too.

IV. HER TRIUMPH.

SEE the chariot at hand here of Love,
Wherein my lady rideth!

Each that drawes is a swan, or a dove,
And well the carre Love guideth.
As she goes, all hearts do duty
Unto her beauty;

And, enamour'd, doe wish so they might
But enjoy such a sight,

V. HIS DISCOURSE WITH CUPID.

NOBLEST Charis, you that are
Both my fortune and my starre !
And doe governe more my blood,
Then the various Moone the flood!
Heare, what late discourse of you,
Love and I have had; and true.
'Mongst my Muses finding me,
Where he chanc't your name to see
Set, and to this softer straine;
"Sure," said he, " if I have braine,
This here sung can be no other,
By description, but my mother!
So hath Homer prais'd her haire;
So Anacreon drawne the ayre
Of her face, and made to rise,
Just about her sparkling eyes,
Both her browes, bent like my bow.
By her lookes I doe her know,
Which you call my shafts. And see!
Such my mother's blushes be,
As the bath your verse discloses
In her cheekes, of milke and roses;
Such as oft I wanton in.

And, above her even chin,

Have you plac'd the banke of kisses,
Where you say, men gather blisses,
Rip'ned with a breath more sweet,
Then when flowers and west-winds meet.
Nay, her white and polish'd neck,
With the lace that doth it deck,
Is my mother's! hearts of slaine
Lovers, made into a chaine!
And betweene each rising breast
Lyes the valley, cal'd my nest,
Where I sit and proyne my wings
After flight; and put new stings
To my shafts! Her very name,
With my mother's is the same.".
"I confesse all," I replide,
"And the glasse hangs by her side,
And the girdle 'bout her waste,
All is Venus: save unchaste.

But, alas! thou seest the least
Of her good, who is the best

Of her sex; but could'st thou, Love,
Call to minde the formes, that strove
For the apple, and those three
Make in one, the same were shee.
For this beauty yet doth hide
Something more then thou hast spi'd.
Outward grace weake love beguiles:
Shee is Venus when she smiles,
But shee's Juno when she walkes,
And Minerva when she talkes."

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VI. CLAYMING A SECOND KISSE BY DESERT.

CHARIS, guesse, and doe not miss,
Since I drew a morning kisse
From your lips, and suck'd an ayre
Thence, as sweet as you are faire.

What my Muse and I have done:
Whether we have lost or wonne,
If by us the oddes were laid,
That the bride (allow'd a maid)
Look'd not halfe so fresh and faire,
With th' advantage of her haire,
And her jewels, to the view
Of th' assembly, as did you!

Or, that did you sit, or walke,
You were more the eye and talke
Of the court, to day, then all
Else that glister'd in White-hall;
So, as those that had your sight,
Wisht the bride were chang'd to night,
And did thinke such rites were due
To no other grace but you!

Or, if you did move to night
In the daunces, with what spight
Of your peeres you were beheld,
That at every motion sweld

So to see a lady tread,

As might all the Graces leade,
And was worthy (being so seene)
To be envi'd of the queene.

Or, if you would yet have stay'd,
Whether any would up-braid
To himselfe his losse of time;
Or have charg'd his sight of crime,
To have left all sight for you:

Guesse of these, which is the true;
And, if such a verse as this
May not claime another kisse.

VII. BEGGING ANOTHER, ON COLOUR OF MENDING THE FORMER.

FOR Love's sake, kisse me once againe,

I long, and should not beg in vaine,

Here's none to spie or see;

Why doe you doubt, or stay? I'le taste as lightly as the bee,

That doth but touch his flower, and flies away.

Once more, and (faith) I will be gone.
Can he that loves aske lesse then one?
Nay, you may erre in this,

And all your bountie wrong:

This could be call'd but halfe a kisse.

What w'are but once to doe, we should doe long.

VIII. URGING HER OF A PROMISE.

CHARIS One day in discourse

Had of Love, and of his force,

Lightly promis'd, she would tell
What a man she could love well:

And that promise set on fire
All that heard her with desire.
With the rest, I long expected
When the worke would be effected:
But we find that cold delay
And excuse spun every day,
As, untill she tell her one,
We all feare she loveth none.
Therefore, Charis, you must do't,
For I will so urge you to't,
You shall neither eat, nor sleepe,
No, nor forth your window peepe,
With your emissarie eye,
To fetch in the formes goe by:
And pronounce, which band or lace
Better fits him then his face;
Nay, I will not let you sit
'Fore your idoll glasse a whit,
To say over every purle
There; or to reforme a curle;
Or with secretarie Sis
To consult, if fucus this
Be as good as was the last:
All your sweet of life is past,

Make account unlesse you can,

(And that quickly) speake your man.

IX. HER MAN DESCRIBED BY HER OWNE DICTAMEN.

Or your trouble, Ben, to ease me,

I will tell what man would please me.
I would have him, if I could,
Noble; or of greater blood:
Titles, I confesse, doe take me,
And a woman God did make me.
French to boote, at least in fashion,
And his manners of that nation.

Young I'd have him too, and faire,
Yet a man; with crisped haire,
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 looke wanton-wise.
Eye-brows bent like Cupid's bow,
Front, an ample field of snow;
Even nose, and cheeke (withall)
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 make Love or me afeard.

He would have a hand as soft
As the downe, and show it oft;
Skin as smooth as any rush,
And so thin to see a blush
Rising through it e're it came;
All his blood should be a flame
Quickly fir'd, as in beginners

In love's schoole, and yet no sinners.
"Twere too long to speake of all;
What we harmonie doe call
In a body should be there.

Well he should his clothes too weare,
Yet no taylor help to make him,

Drest, you still for man should take him ;
And not thinke h' had eat a stake,
Or were set up in a brake.

Valiant he should be as fire,
Showing danger more then ire.
Bounteous as the clouds to earth;
And as honest as his birth,
All his actions to be such,
As to doe nothing too much.
Nor o're-praise, nor yet condemne;
Nor out-valew, nor contemne;

Nor doe wrongs, nor wrongs receave;
Nor tie knots, nor knots unweave;
And from basenesse 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.

X. ANOTHER LADYE'S EXCEPTION, PRESENT AT

THE HEARING.

FOR his mind, I doe not care,
That's a toy, that I could spare:
Let his title be but great,

His clothes rich, and band sit neat,
Himselfe young, and face be good,
All I wish is understood:

What you please, you parts may call, 'Tis one good part I'd lie withall.

THE

MUSICALL STRIFE;

IN A PASTORALL DIALOGUE.

SHEE.

COME, with our voyces let us warre, And challenge all the spheares, Till each of us be made a starre, And all the world turne eares.

HEE.

At such a call, what beast or fowle

Of reason emptie is!

What tree or stone doth want a soule? What man but must lose his?

SHEE.

Mixe then your notes, that we may prove
To stay the running floods;
To make the mountaine quarries move;
And call the walking woods.

HEE.

What need of mee? doe you but sing,
Sleepe and the grave will wake,
No tunes are sweet, nor words have sting,
But what those lips doe make.

SHEE.

They say the angells marke each deed,
And exercise below,

And out of inward pleasure feed
On what they viewing know.

НЕЕ.

O sing not you then, lest the best
Of angels should be driven
To fall againe, at such a feast,
Mistaking Earth for Heaven.

SHEE.

Nay, rather both our soules bee strayn'd
To meet their high desire;

So they in state of grace retain'd,
May wish us of their quire,

A SONG.

Он, doe not wanton with those eyes,
Lest I be sick with seeing;

Nor cast them downe, but let them rise,
Lest shame destroy their being.

O, be not angry with those fires,
For then their threats will kill me;
Nor looke too kinde on my desires,
For then my hopes will spill me.

O, do not steepe them in thy teares,
For so will sorrow slay me;
Nor spread them as distract with feares,
Mine owne enough betray me.

IN THE PERSON OF WOMAN KIND.

A SONG APOLOGETIQUE.

MEN, if you love us, play no more

The fooles, or tyrants with your friends, To make us still sing o're and o're,

Our owne false praises, for your ends: Wee have both wits and fancies too, And if we must, let's sing of you.

Nor doe we doubt, but that we can,

If wee would search with care and paine, Find some one good, in some one man ; So, going thorow all your straine, Wee shall at last, of parcells make One good enough for a song's sake.

And as a cunning painter takes,

In any curious peece you see, More pleasure while the thing he makes Then when 'tis made; why so will wee. And having pleas'd our art, wee'll try To make a-new, and hang that by.

ANOTHER.

IN DEFENCE OF THEIR INCONSTANCIE.

A SONG.

HANG up those dull and envious fooles That talke abroad of woman's change, We were not bred to sit on stooles,

Our proper vertue is to range: Take that away, you take our lives, We are no women then, but wives.

Such as in valour would excell

Doe change, though man, and often fight, Which we in love must doe as well, If ever we will love aright.. The frequent varying of the deed, Is that which doth perfection breed.

Nor is't inconstancie to change

For what is better, or to make (By searching) what before was strange, Familiar, for the use's sake; The good, from bad, is not descride, But as 'tis often vext and tri'd.

And this profession of a store

In love, doth not alone help forth Our pleasure; but preserves us more

From being forsaken, then doth worth: For were the worthiest woman curst To love one man, hee'd leave her first.

A NYMPH'S PASSION.

I LOVE, and he loves me againe,
Yet dare I not tell who ;

For if the nymphs should know my swaine,
I feare they'd love him too:

Yet if it be not knowne,

The pleasure is as good as none,

For that's a narrow joy is but our owne.

I'le tell, that if they be not glad,
They yet may envie me:

But then if I grow jealous madde,
And of them pittied be,

It were a plague 'bove scorne,
And yet it cannot be forborne,

Unlesse my heart would as my thought be torne.

He is, if they can find him, faire,

And fresh and fragrant too,

As summer's sky, or purged ayre,
And lookes as lillies doe,

That are this morning blowne,
Yet, yet I doubt he is not knowne,

And feare much more, that more of him be showne.

But he hath eyes so round and bright,
As make away my doubt,

Where Love may all his torches light,
Though Hate had put them out;

But then t'encrease my feares,
What nymph so e're his voyce but heares
Will be my rivall, though she have but eares.

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That she,

Whom I adore so much, should so slight me,
And cast my love behind:

I'm sure my language to her was as sweet,
And every close did meet

In sentence, of as subtile feet,
As hath the youngest hee,
That sits in shadow of Apollo's tree.
Oh, but my conscious feares,

That flie my thoughts betweene,
Tell me that she hath seene
My hundreds of gray haires,

Told seven and fortie yeares,

Read so much waste, as she cannot imbrace My mountaine belly, and my rockie face, And all these through her eyes, have stopt her eares.

AGAINST IEALOUSIE.

WRETCHED and foolish jealousie,
How camst thou thus to enter me?
I n're was of thy kind;

Nor have I yet the narrow mind
To vent that poore desire,

That others should not warme them at my fire.
I wish the Sun should shine,

On all men's fruit, and flowers, as well as mine.

But under the disguise of love

Thou sai'st thou onely cam'st to prove
What my affections were,

Think'st thou that love is help'd by feare?
Goe, get thee quickly forth,

Love's sicknesse, and his noted want of worth, Seeke doubting men to please,

I ne're will owe my health to a disease.

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