CUPID and my Campaspe play'd
At cards for kisses; Cupid paid.
lle stakes his quiver, bow, and arrows,
His mother's doves and team of sparrows;
Loses them too, and down he throws
The coral of his lip-the rose
Growing on's cheek, but none knows how;
With these the crystal on his brow,
And then the dimple of his chin;
All these did my Campaspe win:
At last he set her both his eyes-
She won, and Cupid blind did rise.
O Love, hath she done this to thee?
What shall, alas, become of me!
LAWRENCE, of virtuous father virtuous son,
Now that the fields are dank and ways are mire,
Where shall we sometimes meet, and by the fire
Help waste a sullen day, what may be won
From the hard season gaining? Time will run
On smoother, till Favonius re-inspire
The frozen earth, and clothe in fresh attire
The lily and rose, that neither sow'd nor spun.
What neat repast shall feast us, light and choice,
Of Attic taste, with wine, whence we may rise
To hear the lute well touch'd, or artful voice
Warble immortal notes and Tuscan air?
He who of those delights can judge, and spare
To interpose them oft, is not unwise.
Of all the torments, all the cares,
With which our lives are curst;
Of all the plagues a lover bears,
Sure rivals are the worst!
By partners of each other kind,
Afflictions easier grow;
In love alone we hate to find
Companions of our woe.
Sylvia, for all the pangs you see
Are labouring in my breast,
I beg not you would favour me,
Would you but slight the rest.
How great soe'er your rigours are,
With them alone I'll cope :-
I can endure my own despair,
But not another's hope.
THE Lady Mary Villiers lies
Under this stone: with weeping eyes
The parents that first gave her birth,
And their sad friends, laid her in earth.
If any of them, Reader, were
Known unto thee, shed a tear;
Or if thyself possess a gem,
As dear to thee as this to them;
Tho' a stranger to this place,
Bewayle in theirs thine own hard case,
For thou, perhaps, at thy returne
Mayst find thy darling in an urne.
CYRIAC, whose grandsire, on the royal bench
Of British Themis, with no mean applause,
Pronounced, and in his volumes taught, our laws,
Which others at their bar so often wrench;
To-day deep thoughts resolve with me to drench
In mirth, that after no repenting draws :
Let Euclid rest, and Archimedes pause,
And what the Swede intends, and what the French.
To measure life learn thou betimes, and know
Toward solid good what leads the nearest way;
For other things mild Heaven a time ordains,
And disapproves that care, tho' wise in show,
That with superfluous burthen loads the day,
And, when God sends a cheerful hour, refrains.
John Milton.
STILL to be neat, still to be drest
As you were going to a feast;
Still to be powdered, still perfumed :
Lady, it is to be presumed,
Though art's hid causes are not found,
All is not sweet, all is not sound.
Give me a lock, give me a face,
That makes simplicity a grace :
Robes loosely flowing, hair as free:
Such sweet neglect more taketh me
Than all the adulteries of art;
HIS LOVE ADMITS NO RIVAL.
SHALL I, like a hermit, dwell
On a rock, or in a cell,
Calling home the smallest part
That is missing of my heart,
To bestow it where I may
Meet a rival every day?
If she undervalue me,
What care I how fair she be?
Were her tresses angel gold,
If a stranger may be bold,
Unrebuked, unafraid,
To convert them to a braid,
And with little more ado
Work them into bracelets too;
If the mine be grown so free,
What care I how rich it be?
TO HIS PECULIAR FRIEND, MR. JOHN WICKS.
SINCE shed nor cottage I have none,
I sing the more that thou hast one,
To whose glad threshold and free door
I may a poet come, though poor,
And eat with thee a savoury bit,
Paying but common thanks for it.
Yet should I chance, my Wicks, to see
An over-leaven look in thee,
To sour the bread, and turn the beer
To an exalted vinegar ;
Or shouldst thou prize me as a dish
Of thrice boiled worts, or third day's fish,
I'd rather hungry go and come,
Than to thy house be burdensome :
Yet in my depth of grief I'd be
One that should drop his beads for thee.
COME, let us now resolve at last
To live and love in quiet;
We'll tie the knot so very fast,
That Time shall ne'er untie it.
The truest joys they seldom prove
Who free from quarrels live;
'Tis the most tender part of love
Each other to forgive.
When least I seemed concerned, I took
No pleasure, nor no rest;
And when I feign'd an angry look,
Alas! I loved you best.
Own but the same to me, you'll find
How blest will be your fate;
O, to be happy, to be kind,
Sure never is too late.
John, Duke of Buckingham.
OFTEN I have heard it said
That her lips are ruby-red.
Little heed I what they say,
I have seen as red as they.
Ere she smiled on other men,
Real rubies were they then.
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