Short Poems

Fly to my Mistresse, pretty pilfring Bee,
And say, thou bring'st this Hony-bag from me:
When on her lip, thou hast thy sweet dew plac't,
Mark, if her tongue, but slily, steale a taste.
If so, we live; if not, with mournfull humme,
Tole forth my death; next, to my buryall come.

Although we cannot turne the fervent fit
Of sin, we must strive 'gainst the streame of it:
And howsoe're we have the conquest mist;
'Tis for our glory, that we did resist.

Before Mans fall, the Rose was born
(S. Ambrose sayes) without the Thorn:
But, for Mans fault, then was the Thorn,
Without the fragrant Rose-bud, born;
But ne're the Rose without the Thorn.

Fooles are they, who never know
How the times away doe goe:
But for us, who wisely see
Where the bounds of black Death be:
Let's live merrily, and thus
Gratifie the Genius.

So long you did not sing, or touch your Lute,
We knew 'twas Flesh and Blood, that there sate mute.
But when your Playing, and your Voice came in,
'Twas no more you then, but a Cherubin.

Those Garments lasting evermore,
Are works of mercy to the poore,
Which neither Tettar, Time, or Moth
Shall fray that silke, or fret this cloth.

By houres we all live here, in Heaven is known
No spring of Time, or Times succession.

There's no constraint to do amisse,
Whereas but one enforcement is.

Whatever comes, let's be content withall:
Among Gods Blessings, there is no one small.

Prig now drinks Water, who before drank Beere:
What's now the cause? we know the case is cleere:
Look in Prig's purse, the chev'rell there tells you
Prig mony wants, either to buy, or brew.