Next, when I cast mine eyes, and see DELIGHT IN DISORDER. A sweet disorder in the dress An erring lace, which here and there A winning wave, deserving note, In the tempestuous petticoat; A careless shoe-string, in whose tie I see a wild civility; Do more bewitch me, than when art ART ABOVE NATURE. When I behold a forest spread And all those airy silks to flow, CHERRY-RIPE. Cherry-ripe, ripe, ripe, I cry, THE BRIDE-CAKE. This day, my Julia, thou must make HIS PRAYER TO BEN JONSON. When I a verse shall make, Know I have pray'd thee, For old religion's sake, Saint Ben, to aid me. Make the way smooth for me, Candles I'll give to thee, And thou, Saint Ben, shalt be AN ODE FOR BEN JONSON. Ah Ben! Say how or when Shall we, thy guests, The Dog, the Triple Tun; As made us nobly wild, not mad? Out-did the meat, out-did the frolic wine. Or come again, Or send to us But teach us yet Wisely to husband it, Lest we that talent spend; And having once brought to an end Of such a wit the world should have no more. TO ANTHEA. Bid me to live, and I will live Or bid me love, and I will give A heart as soft, a heart as kind, As in the whole world thou canst find, Bid that heart stay, and it will stay To honour thy decree; Or bid it languish quite away, And 't shall do so for thee. Bid me to weep, and I will weep, Bid me despair, and I'll despair, -Thou art my life, my love, my heart, And hast command of every part, TO ANTHEA. Now is the time when all the lights wax dim; Where, though thou see'st not, thou may'st think upon Or, for mine honour, lay me in that tomb In which thy sacred reliques shall have room; For my embalming, Sweetest, there will be TO PERILLA. Ah, my Perilla! dost thou grieve to see Me, day by day, to steal away from thee? Age calls me hence, and my gray hairs bid come, 'Twill not be long, Perilla, after this, That I must give thee the supremest kiss : Dead when I am, first cast in salt, and bring Which wrapt thy smooth limbs, when thou didst implore Then shall my ghost not walk about, but keep THE WAKE. Come, Anthea, let us two Tarts and custards, creams and cakes, Are the junkets still at wakes; Unto which the tribes resort, Where the business is the sport: Morris-dancers thou shalt see, Marian, too, in pageantry: And a mimic to devise Many grinning properties. Players there will be, and those Near the dying of the day Where a coxcomb will be broke, And possess no other fear, Than to want the Wake next year. |