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Licke his proud feet, and haste into the seas

5 Through the great mouth that's nam'd from Hercules) A band of men, rough as the armes they wore Look’t round, first to the sea, then to the shore. The shore that shewed them, what the sea deny'd, Hope of a prey. There to the maine-land ty'd A ship they saw ; no men she had, yet prest Appear'd with other lading, for her brest Deep in the groaning waters wallowed Vp to the third ring : o're the shore was spread Death's purple triumph ; on the blushing ground 15 Life's late forsaken houses all lay drown'd In their owne blood's deare deluge : some new dead; Some panting in their yet warme ruines bled, While their affrighted soules, now wing'd for flight Lent them the last flash of her glimmering light. Those yet fresh streaines which crawled every where Shew'd that sterne Warre had newly bath'd him there. Nor did the face of this disaster show Markes of a fight alone, but feasting too: A miserable and a monstruous feast,

25 Where hungry Warre had made himself a guest : And comming late had eat up guests and all, Who prov'd the feast to their owne funerall &c.

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His skin as with a fiery blushing
High-colour'd is; his eyes still flushing
With nimble flames; and though his mind
Be ne're so curst, his tongue is kind :
For never were his words in ought
Found the pure issue of his thought.
The working bees' soft melting gold,
That which their waxen mines enfold,
Flow not so sweet as doe the tones
Of his tun'd accents; but if once
His anger kindle, presently
It boyles out into cruelty,
And fraud : he makes poor mortalls' hurts
The objects of his cruell sports.
With dainty curles his froward face
Is crown'd about : But O what place,
What farthest nooke of lowest Hell
Feeles not the strength, the reaching spell
Of his small hand ? Yet not so small
As 'tis powerfull therewithall.
Though bare his skin, his mind he covers,
And like a saucy bird he hovers
With wanton wing, now here, now there,
'Bout men and women, nor will spare
Till at length he perching rest,
In the closet of their brest.
His weapon is a little bow,
Yet such a one as--Jove knows how-

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45 CIPID'S CRYER:

OUT OF THE GREEKE.

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LOVE is lost, nor can his mother
ller little fugitive discover :
She seekes, she sighes, but no where spyes him ;
Love is lost: and thus shee

cryes

him.
() yes! if any happ'y eye,
This roaring wanton shall descry;
Let the finder surely know
Mine is the wayge ; 'tis I that owe
The wingaid wand'rer; and that none
Many think, his labour vainely gone,
The glaul (leseryer shall not misse,
To tast the nectar of a kisse
From Venus lipps. But is for him
That brings him to me, he shall swim
In riper joyes : more shall be his
(Venus assures liim) than a kisse.
But let your eye liscerning slide,
These markes may be your judgement's guide;

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| Appeared originally in the Delights' of 1616 (pp. 115-117): was reprinted 16-18 (pp. 11-13) and 1670 (pp. 110.112). Our text is that of 1618; but all agree, save as follows: 16:16 misprints .cease for ceaze' == seize, in line 17 from end; and 1670, line 8 from bekimning, misprints own for one;' the latter perpetuated by TURN

The poem is an interpretation of the first Hyll of Moschus. Line 51, () yes' = the legale: line sowe

= own. G.

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