English

P hylaster 's grown unkind,
The lovely perjur'd Youth,
Tho' by sacred Oaths confind;
Has now lost all his Truth.
He swore ten thousand times,
By all the Powers above,
Wish'd they would revenge his Crimes,
If he was false to Love.

Yet, spite of all he's gone,
Fled my once dear Imbrace;
And now I must be undone,
For some new Shape or Face.
Ye heedless Nymphs beware,
How you receive my Swain,
Ah! believe not tho' he Swear,
For he will change again.

The sullen part of Love,

Philomela.

Nothinge on earth remaynes to shew so ryght
The patterne true of my encreasinge Care
As Philomela with her songe by nyghte
Whose rufull state to myne I thus compare
With carefull watch She pearcheth in the tree
When creatures all into theyre nests do creepe
So from myne eyes all sweete repose doth flye
When men are wonte of course to take their slepe
She with a thorne againste her tender Breste

Love, like Original Sin, in all does dwell,
Fools sighs in private, and the Witty tell;
Boast they'r fond Passions in repeated Rhymes,
That other Reigning Mischief of the Times:
The Learn'd asham'd to own their Amorous Pain,
Vent the warm Raptures in a Pious strain,
Sigh, Languish, Die, (tho' for a Mortal fair,)
In Lays Divine, like Quarles and Arwaker .

Curse on this Virtue Constancy,
Of which we're vainly Proud;
It like a Crime doth Torture me,
Since all my softer thoughts of Bliss,
And ev'ry kind and tender Wish,
Is on a careless thankless Swain bestow'd.
I with more ease could bear my Fate,
Forgive his Cruelty,
If stupidly our Sex he hate:
But he doth Smile on every Fair,
The partial Curse I cannot bear,
For, oh he's kind! he's kind! to all but me.

Say, lovely Youth, why all this niceness shown,
Is modest Passion, so offensive grown?
I'll not oblige too far, nor force my Charms,
To tempt your Coyness to my slighted Arms:
Give me but leave, with secret sighs to Gaze,
And silent Joys, view that dear fatal Face.
I never dress'd, nor smil'd, us'd no soft Art,
No little Amorous cheat to win your Heart,
Nor knew in mine you had so great a Part;
Till from my Sight you cautiously remov'd,
Then, not till then, I knew how well I lov'd:
'Twas my Advice, you should awhile absent,

Dark were the shadows of the room
As Valombrosa's green-arched gloom;
Only the organ-pipes' dim row
Sent through the dusk a golden glow,
As yearning for the Master's hand
Their slumbering secrets to command
And pour wild music out, until
Deep melancholy's sweetest will
Had utterance, luxurious woe
In silver thunders sobbing slow.

For his was all the subtle art
Of melody that breaks the heart
With rapture. And delicious shocks,
Sweet as the honey of the rocks
To other sense, well did he know

Sonnett

Waying the cares that cause me thus to crye
the combers that dayly straines my hart string
the sorrowes that drawe the dropps from myn eye
strange may it seeme how my muse this can singe
I synge not deare love but lyke to the Swanne
that fyndynge her deathe shrykes out her voice
so without pleasure syngs the laboringe man
so synges the lover that loseth his Choise
So syngs the Beggar that craves att the dore
so syngs the pilgryme that thinks his way long
So syngs the slave that pulls att the oare

In vain alas ye search your artless Books,
A lover's Fates writ in his Mistris's Looks;
Tis to no purpose that ye gaze ith' Skys,
There are no Stars like her propitious Eyes.
When Hearts are lost to set a Figure vain,
None but the Thief knows if you'll hav't again.
Your Venus ask, not Mercury 's Aid intreat,
For he knows nothing of an amorous Cheat:
'Tis she alone that can the Mystery tell,
Read but her Looks they are infallible;
Consult the upper World for Death and Wars,
She is Love's Heaven, her Eyes the only Stars:

A light heart had the Irish lad,
As light as any in the land,
And surely that was all he had,
Save the King's English, at command!
Nay, Greek had he, a goodly store,
Though not a penny came to mock it;
Well, well, and he had something more—
He had a whistle in his pocket!

Ay, Greek he had, pure root and stem;
And that they had not at Louvain,
And that they wanted not—for them
Nor Plato spoke nor Homer sang.
And he had dreamed of classes there,
And he had crossed the deep seas over,

Who woulde more sweete Contentment crave
In one delyghtfull face alone
Then to beholde your gesture brave
Whom yff I love nott I love none
For as your Beawtye hath the power
To wounde and putt my harte to payne
So cann your favour in an hower
Restore to perfecte Joy agayne
Within whose pleasinge lookes I see
Such rare delyghtes my mynde to gladd
As cuers a thowesande cares in me
And more woulde cure yff more I hadd
Oh that I hadd a thowsande Eyes
Her to contemplate and admyre