I boast not of a pedigree, ́

That lords or lordlings be;

Nor do I lace my name with grandsires' story,
Nor will I take the pains to look

For a fool's coat i' th' herald's book,
My fame's mine own, no monumental glory.

I am not fashion'd of the mode,

Nor rant i' th' gallant's road;

Nor in my habit do observe decoruin :
Perfumes shall not my breath belie,
Nor clothes my body glorify,

They shall derive their honour, 'cause I wear 'em.

No frizzling nor scarce locks, and yet
Perhaps more hair than wit:

Nor shall sweet-powders' vanity delight you;
Though my hair's little, I'll not carry
A wig for an auxiliary.

If my locks can't, another's sha'n't invite you.

NAY. fie, Platonics! still adoring
The fond chimeras of your brain?
Still on that empty nothing poring?
And only follow what you feign i
Live in your humour, 'tis a curse
So bad, 'twere pity wish a worse.
We'll banish such conceits as those,
Since he that has enjoyment knows
More bliss than Plato could suppose.
Cashiered wooers, whose low merit

Could ne'er arrive at nuptial bliss,
Turn schismatics in love, whose spirit
Would have none hit, 'cause they do miss.
But those reproaches that they vent,
Do only blaze their discontent.

Condemu'd men's words no truth can show; And hunters, when they prove too slow, Cry, "Hares are dry meat, let 'em go."

Th' enamour'd youth, whose flaming breast
Makes goddesses and angels all,
In's contemplation finds no rest,
For all his joys are sceptical,
At his fruition flings away
His Cloris and his welladay,
And gladly joins to fill our choir:
Who to such happiness aspire,
As all must envy or admire.

LOVE'S WITHOUT REASON.

'Tis not my lady's face that makes me love her, Though beauty there doth rest, Enough t' inflame the breast

Of one, that never did discover

The glories of a face before;

But I that have seen thousands more,
See nought in hers but what in others are,
Only because I think she's fair, she's fair.

'Tis not her virtues, nor those vast perfections,
That crowd together in her,
Engage my soul to win her,

For those are only brief collections
Of what's in man in folio writ;
Which, by their imitative wit,

Women, like apes and children, strive to do;
But we that have the substance slight the show.
'Tis not her birth, her friends, nor yet her treasure,
My freeborn soul can hold ;

For chains are chains, though gold:
Nor do I court her for my pleasure,

Nor for that old morality

Do I love her, 'cause she loves me :
For that's no love, but gratitude, and all
Loves, that from fortunes rise, with fortunes fall.

If friends or birth created love within me,
Then princes I'll adore,
And only scorn the poor:

If virtue or good parts could win me,

I'd turn Platonic, and ne'er vex
My soul with difference of sex;
And he that loves his lady 'cause she's fair,
Delights his eye, so loves himself, not her.
Reason and wisdom are to love high treason;
Nor can he truly love,

Whose flame's not far above,
And far beyond his wit or reason;

Then ask no reason for my fires,
For infinite are my desires.

Something there is moves me to love, and I
Do know I love, but know not how, nor why

COURTSHIP.

My Lesbia, let us live and love,
Let crabbed age talk what it will;
The Sun, though down, returns above,
But we, once dead, must be so still.
Kiss me a thousand times, and then
Give me a hundred kisses more;
Now kiss a thousand times again,

Then t'other hundred as before
Come, a third thousand, and to those
Another hundred kisses fix;
That done, to make the sweeter close,
We'll millious of kisses mix.

WHY should I blush or be dismay'd,

To tell you I adore you?

Since love's a pow'r, that can't be stay'd,
But must by all be once obey'd,

And you as well as those before you.
Your beauty hath enchain'd my mind,
O let me not then cruel find,

You which are fair, and therefore should be kind.

Fair as the light, pure as the ray,

That in the grey-ey'd morning
Leaps forth, and propagates a day,
Those glories which in others stray

Meet all in you for your adorning.
Since Nature built that goodly frame,
And virtue has inspir'd the same,

Let love draw yours to meet my raging flame.

Joy of my soul, the only thing,

That's my delight and glory,

From you alone my love does spring,
If one love may another bring,

"Twill crown our happy story.

Those fires I burn with all are pure

And noble, yet too strong t' endure;

'Twas you did wound, 'twas you that ought to cure.

TRANSLATED OUT OF FRENCH.

Now I'm resolv'd to love no more,
But sleep by night, and drink by day:
You'r coyness, Cleris, pray give o'er,

And turn your tempting eyes away.
From ladies I'll withdraw my heart
And fix it only on the quart.
I'll place no happiness of mine

A puling beauty still to court
And say she's glorious and divine,
The vintner makes the better sport.
And when I say my dear, my heart,
I only mean it to the quart.
Love has no more prerogative,

To make me desperate courses take,
Nor me t'an hermitage shall drive,
I'll all my vow to th' goblet make
And if I wear a capuchoone
It shall a tankard be or none.

ADDED.

"Tis wine alone that cheers the soul, But love and ladies make us sad,

Fm merry when I court the bowl,

While he that courts the madam's mad,

Then ladies wonder not at me, For you are coy, but wine is free.

TO A PAINTED LADY.

LEAVE these deluding tricks and shows,
Be honest and downright;
What Nature did to view expose,

Don't you keep out of sight.
The novice youth may chance admire
Your dressings, paints and spells :
But we that are expert desire

Your sex for somewhat else.

In your adored face and hair,
What virtue could you find,
If women were like angels fair,
And every man were blind?
You need no time or pains to waste

To set your beauties forth,

With oils, and paint and drugs, that cost More than the face is worth.

Nature her self her own work does,

And hates all needless arts,
And all your artificial shows

Disgrace your nat❜ral parts.
You're flesh and blood, and so are we,
Let flesh and blood alone,

To love all compounds hateful be,
Give me the pure or none.

TO A COY LADY.

I PRITHEE leave this peevish fashion, Don't desire to be high-priz'd, Love's a princely noble passion,

And doth scorn to be despis'd. Though we say you're fair, you know, We your beauty do bestow, For our fancy makes you so.

Don't be proud 'cause we adore yon, We do't only for our pleasure, And those parts in which you glory, We by fancy weigh and measure. When for deities you go,

For angels, or for queens, pray know, 'Tis our fancy makes you so.

Don't suppose your majesty
By tyranny's best signified,
And your angelic natures be

Distinguish'd only by your pride. Tyrants make subjects rebels grow, And pride makes angels dev'ls below, And your pride may make you so.

THE RECOVERY.
How unconcerned I can now
Behold that face of thine!
The graces and the dresses too,

Which both conspire to make thee shine,
And make me think thou art divine.

And yet methinks thou'rt wond'rous fair,
But I have no desires.

Those glories in thy face that are,
Kindled not in my heart those fires,
For that remains though this, expires

Nor was't my eyes that had such pow'r
To burn my self and you,
For then they'd every thing devour,
But I do several others view,
Unsing'd, and so don't think it true.
Nay both together could not do't,
Else we had dy'd ere this,
Without some higher pow'r to boot,
Which must rule both, if either miss,
All t' other to no purpose is.
It puzzles my philosophy,
To find wherein consists

This pow'r of love, and tyranny,
Or in a lover's eye or breast.

Be 't where it will, there let it rest.

ADVICE TO CELIA.

My lovely Celia, while thou dost enjoy,
Beauty and youth, be sure to use 'em,
And be not fickle, be not coy,
Thy self or lovers to destroy.

Since all those lilies and those roses,
Which lovers find, or love supposes,
To flourish in thy face,

Will tarry but a little space.
And youth and beauty are but only lent
To you by Nature, with this good intent,

You should enjoy, but not abuse 'em,

And when enjoyments may be had, not fondly to refuse 'em.

Let lovers' flatt'ry ne'er prevail with thee;
Nor their old compliments deceive thee,

Their vows and protestations be

Too often mere hypocrisy.

And those high praises of the witty

May all be costly, but not fit ye,
Or if it true should be

Now what thy lovers say of thee,

Sickness or age will quickly strip away
Those fading glories of thy youthful May,
And of thy graces all bereave thee:

Then those that thee ador'd before will slight thee, and so leave thee.

Then while thou'rt fair and young, be kind but wise, Doat not, nor proudly use denying;

That tempting toy thy beauty lies

The ground does tipple healths apace,
When storms do fall, and shall not we?
A sorrow dares not show his face,

When we are ships and sack's the sea. Pox on this grief, hang wealth, let's sing, Shall's kill ourselves for fear of death? We'll live by th' air which songs do bring, Our sighing does but waste our breath. Then let us not be discontent,

Nor drink a glass the less of wine;

In vain they'll think their plagues are spent, When once they see we don't repine.

We do not suffer here alone;

Though we are beggar'd, so's the king,
'Tis sin t' have wealth, when he has none,
Tush! poverty's a royal thing!
When we are larded well with drink,

Our heads shall turn as round as theirs,
Our feet shall rise, our bodies sink

Clean down the wind, like cavaliers. Fill this unnatural quart with sack, Nature all vacuums doth decline, Our selves will be a zodiac,

And every mouth shall be a sign.
Methinks the travels of the glass,

Are circular like Plato's year;
Where every thing is as it was,
Let's tipple round; and so 'tis here.

WHERE England's Damon us'd to keep,
In peace and awe, his flocks,

Who fed, not fed upon, his sheep.
There wolves and tigers now do prey,
There sheep are slain, and goats do sway,
There reigns the subtle fox
While the poor lambkins weep.

The laurell'd garland which before
Circled his brows about,

The spotless coat which once he wore,
The sheep hook which he us'd to sway,
And pipe whereon he lov'd to play,

Are seiz'd on by the rout,
And must be us'd no more.
Poor swain, how thou lament'st to see
Thy flocks o'er-rul'd by those
That serve thy cattle all like thee,
Where hateful vice usurps the crown,
And loyalty is trodden down;

Down scrip and sheep-hook goes,

When foxes shepherds be.

A MOCK-SONG.

HANG up Mars

And his wars,
Give us drink,

We'll tipple my lads together:

Those are slaves,

Fools and knaves,

That have chink,

And must pay,

For what they say,
Do, or think,

Good fellows account for neither.
Be we round, be we square,
We are happier than they 're
Whose dignity works their ruin :
He that well the bowl rears,
Can baffle his cares,
And a fig for death or undoing.

THE TROOper.

COME, come, let us drink, 'Tis in vain to think,

Like fools, on grief or sadness; Let our money fly

And our sorrows die,

All worldly care is madness; But sack and good cheer

Will in spite of our fear,

Inspire our souls with gladness.

Let the greedy clowns,

That do live like hounds,

That know neither bound nor measure,

Lament each loss,

For their wealth is their cross,

Whose delight is in their treasure:

But we that have none,

Will use theirs as our own,

And spend it at our pleasure.

Troul about the bowl,

The delight of my soul,

And to my hand commend it. A fig for chink,

'Twas made to buy drink,

Before that we go we'll end it;
When we've spent our store,
The land will yield us more,
And jovially we will spend it.

THE GOOD-FELLOW.

STAY, stay, shut the gates, T'other quart, faith, it is not so late,

As you're thinking,

Those stars which you see,

In this hemisphere, be

But the studs in your cheeks by your drinking. The Sun is gone to tipple all night in the sea, boys, To morrow he'll blush that he's paler than we, boys, Drink wine, give him water, 'tis sack makes us the boys.

Fill, fill up the glass,

To the next merry lad let it pass,
Come away w' it;

Come set foot to foot,

And but give your minds to't,

'Tis beretical six, that doth slay wit.

No Helicon like to the juice of the vine is,

For Phœbus had never had wit, or divineness,

Had his face not been bow-dy'd as thine, his, and mine is.

Drink, drink off your bowls,

We'll enrich both our beads and our souls
With Canary,