Short Poems

What waste in the labour of Chariot and Steed!
For this came ye hither? is this your delight?
There are twenty-four letters, and those ye can read;
But Nature's ten thousand are Blanks in your sight.
Then throw by your Books, and the study begin;
Or sleep, and be blameless, and wake at Your Inn!

The mellow touch of musick most doth wound
The soule, when it doth rather sigh, then sound.

My first lends his aid when I plunge into trade:
My second in jollifications:
My whole, laid on thinnish, imparts a neat finish
To pictorial representations.

Answer . Copal.

Are these your presences, my clan from Heaven?
Are these your hands upon my wounded soul?
Mine own, mine own, blood of my blood be with me,
Fly by my path till you have made me whole!

In English.

Cinna seems poor in show,
And he is so.

In English.

Both lurks and shines hid in an Amber-tear
The Bee in her own Nectar prisoner;
So she who in her life time was contemn'd
Ev'n in her very funerals is gemm'd.

Englished.

Whilst in an Amber-shade the Ant doth feast
A gummy drop ensnares the small wild beast,
A full reward of all her toyls hath she,
'Tis to be thought she would her self so die.

Englished.

When brave chast Arria to her Paetus gave
The Sword from her own breast did bleeding wave,
If there be faith, this wound smarts not said she,
But what you'l make, ah that will murder me.

In English.

Because with bought books, Sir, your study's fraught
A learned Grammarian you would fain be thought,
Nay then buy Lutes and strings, so you may play
The Merchant now, the Fidler the next day.

In English.

Vain Painter why dost strive my face to draw,
With busy hands a Goddesse eyes nere saw?
Daughter of Air and Wind; I do rejoyce
In empty shouts (without a mind) a Voice.
Within your ears shrill echo I rebound,
And if you'l paint me like, then paint a sound.