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Out of Catullus.

Ome and let us live my Deare,
Let us love and never feare,
What the sowrest Fathers say:
Brightest Sol that dyes to day
Lives againe as blith to morrow;
But if we darke sons of sorrow
Set, ô then, how long a Night
Shuts the Eyes of our short light!
Then let amorous kisses dwell
On our lips, begin and tell

A thousand, and a Hundred score,
An Hundred, and a Thousand more,
Till another Thousand smother
That, and that wipe of[f] another.
Thus at last when we have numbred
Many a Thousand, many a Hundred,
Wee'l confound the reckoning quite,
And lose our selves in wild delight:
While our joyes so multiply,
As shall mocke the envious eye.

Ad Principem nondum natum.

Ascere nunc; & nunc! quid enim, puer alme, moraris?
Nulla tibi dederit dulcior hora diem.

Ergone tot tardos (ô lente!) morabere menses?

Rex redit. Ipse veni, & dic bone, Gratus ades.
Nam quid Ave nostrum? quid nostri verba triumphi?
Vagitu meliùs dixeris ista tuo.

At maneas tamen: & nobis nova causa triumphi
Sic demum fueris; nec nova causa tamen:

Nam, quoties Carolo novus aut nova nascitur inf[a]ns,
Revera toties Carolus ipse redit.


To his (supposed) Mistresse.


Ho ere she be,

That not impossible she

That shall command my heart and me;

Where ere she lye,

Lock't up from mortall Eye,
In shady leaves of Destiny;

Till that ripe Birth

Of studied fate stand forth,

And teach her faire steps to our Earth;

Till that Divine

Idea, take a shrine

Of Chrystall flesh, through which to shine;

Meet you her my wishes,

Bespeake her to my blisses,

And be ye call'd my absent kisses.

I wish her Beauty,

That owes not all his Duty

To gaudy Tire, or glistring shoo-ty.

Something more than

Taffata or Tissew can,

Or rampant feather, or rich fan.

More than the spoyle

Of shop, or silkewormes Toyle,
Or a bought blush, or a set smile.

A face thats best

By its owne beauty drest,

And can alone command the rest.

A face made up,

Out of no other shop

Than what natures white hand sets ope.

A cheeke where Youth,

And Blood, with Pen of Truth

Write, what the Reader sweetly ru'th.

A Cheeke where growes

More than a Morning Rose:
Which to no Boxe his being owes.

Lipps, where all Day

A lovers kisse may play,

Yet carry nothing thence away.

Lookes that oppresse

Their richest Tires, but dresse

And cloath their simplest Nakednesse.

Eyes, that displaces

The Neighbour Diamond, and out-faces

That Sunshine, by their own sweet Graces.

Tresses, that weare

Jewells, but to declare

How much themselves more pretious are.

Whose native Ray,

Can tame the wanton Day

Of Gems, that in their bright shades play.

Each Ruby there,

Or Pearle that dare appeare,

Be its own blush, be its own Teare.

A well tam'd Heart,

For whose more noble smart,

Love may be long chusing a Dart.

Eyes, that bestow

Full quivers on loves Bow;

Yet pay lesse Arrowes than they owe.

Smiles, that can warme

The blood, yet teach a charme,
That Chastity shall take no harme.

Blushes, that bin

The burnish of no sin,

Nor flames of ought too hot within.

Joyes, that confesse,

Vertue their Mistresse,

And have no other head to dresse.

Feares, fond and flight,

As the coy Brides, when Night
First does the longing Lover right.

Teares, quickly fled,

And vaine, as those are shed
For a dying Maydenhead.

Dayes, that need borrow,

No part of their good Morrow,

From a fore spent night of sorrow.

Dayes, that in spight

Of Darkenesse, by the Light

Of a cleere mind are Day all Night.

Nights, sweet as they,

Made short by Lovers play,

Yet long by th' absence of the Day.

Life, that dares send

A challenge to his end,

And when it comes say Welcome Friend,

Sydnæan showers

Óf sweet discourse, whose powers

Can Crown old Winters head with flowers.

Soft silken Hours,

Open sunnes, shady Bowers;

'Bove all, Nothing within that lowers.

What ere Delight

Can make Dayes forehead bright,

Or give Downe to the Wings of Night.

In her whole frame,

Have Nature all the Name,

Art and ornament the shame.

Her flattery,

Picture and Poesy,

Her counsell her owne vertue be.

I wish, her store

Of worth may leave her poore

Of wishes; Ánd I wish

Now if Time knowes

That her whose radiant Browes

No more.

Weave them a Garland of my vowes,

Her whose just Bayes,

My future hopes can raise,

A trophie to her present praise;

Her that dares be,

What these Lines wish to see:

I seeke no further, it is she.

'Tis she, and here

Lo I uncloath and cleare,
My wishes cloudy Character.

May she enjoy it,

Whose merit dare apply it,

But modestly dares still deny it.

Such worth as this is

Shall fixe my flying wishes,

And determine them to kisses.

Let her full Glory,

My fancyes, fly before ye,

Be ye my fictions; But her story.

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