But then, alas, my heart! oh how shall I
Cure thee of thy delightfull tympanie?
I cannot hold; such a spring-tide of joy
Must haue a passage, or 'twill force a way.
Yet shall my loyall tongue keepe this command:

But giue me leaue to case it with my hand.
And though these humble lines soare not soe high,

As is thy birth; yet from thy flaming eye

Drop downe one sparke of glory, & they'l proue

A præsent worthy of Apollo's loue.

My quill to thee may not præsume to sing:

Lett th' hallowed plume of a seraphick wing
Bee consecrated to this worke, while I

Chant to my selfe with rustick melodie.

Rich, liberall heauen, what hath yo' treasure store

Of such bright angells, that you giue vs more?
Had you, like our great sunne, stamped but one
For earth, t' had beene an ample portion.
Had you but drawne one liuely coppy forth,
That might interpret our faire Cynthia's worth,
Y' had done enough to make the lazy ground
Dance, like the nimble spheres, a joyfull round.
But such is the cœlestiall excellence,

That in the princely patterne shines, from whence
The rest pourtraicted are, that 'tis noe paine
To ravish heauen to limbe them o're againe.
Wittnesse this mapp of beauty; euery part
Of wch doth show the quintessence of art.

Thou deseru'st thy life to loose,

For distracting such a Muse.

Was it thy ambitious aime
By thy death to purchase fame?
Didst thou hope he would in pitty
Haue bestow'd a funerall ditty
On thy ghoast? and thou in that
To haue outliuèd Virgill's gnatt?
No! The treason thou hast wrought
Might forbid thee such a thought.

If that Night's worke doe miscarry,

Or a syllable but vary;

A greater foe thou shalt me find,

The destruction of thy kind.
Phoebus, to revenge thy fault,

In a fiery trapp thee caught;

That thy winged mates might know it,

And not dare disturbe a poet.

Deare and wretched was thy sport,

Since thyselfe was crushèd for't;

Scarcely had that life a breath,
Yet it found. a double death;
Playing in the golden flames,
Thou fell'st into an inky Thames;
Scorch'd and drown'd. That petty sunne
A pretty Icarus hath vndone.

FROM PETRONIUS.

Ans Phasiaers petita Colclas, &c.

THE bird that's fetch't from Phasis floud,
Or choicest hennes of Africk-brood;
These please our palates; and why these?
'Cause they can but seldome please.
Whilst the goose soe goodly white,
And the drake, yeeld noe delight,
Though his wings' conceited hewe
Paint each feather, as if new.
These for vulgar stomacks be,
And rellish not of rarity.

But the dainty Searns, sought

In farthest clime; what e're is bought
With shipwrack's toile, oh, that is sweet,
'Cause the quicksands hansell'd it.
The pretious barbill, now growne rife,
Is cloying meat. How stale is wife?
Deare wife hath ne're a handsome letter,
Sweet mistris sounds a great deale better.
Rose quakes at name of cinnamon,
Unlesse't be rare, what's thought vpon?

Petronius, Satyricon, cap. 93. G.