Gold could buy offices, could it have bought wit,
You for your place, it had for you been fit:
But oh more happy times sequestred it!
No time can you sequester of your wit.
You'r a rare Courtier, if the proverb's true:
Nor want of pride, nor ignorance is in you.
And no bad statesman, you may Cope with th' fame
Of Burleigh, Cecil , and wise Walsingame .
No Statesman must divulge what he doth know,
You'r rarely wise who nere your wisdom show.
Your knowledge by your sentences I know,
Pray me some wisdom by your silence show.

BE AN INCENTIVE TO VIRTUE ?

" All praise is foreign, but of true desert,
Plays round the head, but comes not near the heart; "
Yet may a maid for love of praise contend,
Though Pleasure's votary, not less Virtue's friend.
May not she strive around her sacred shrine
The wreath of pleasure gaily to entwine?
To strew the path with many a fragrant flower,
And sweetly decorate the playful hour?
To tempt e'en Time to loiter on his way,
And feel a wish to lengthen out the day?

Who could a Fancy love? who Fancy have.
None e're love wit, whom nature no wit gave.
Some say my Fancy's rich, you'l love it sure;
My Fancy's you, can you your self endure?
Most fancy gold, and I a golden skin:
Who's gold without, is she not rich within?
I from thy skin did make the break of day;
The Moon made pale you took her light away.
To yellow skin the Indies I'd confine;
Give every part the riches of a Mine,
Scorn but my fancy, thou again art poor;
Horses with Yellows shall be valued more.
I'le say the Yellows Jaundies doth thee die;

Ah , what is't to me that the grasshopper sings!
Or what, that the meadows are fair!
That (like little flow'rets, if mounted on wings,)
The butterflies flaunt it in air!
Ye birds, I'll no longer attend to a lay;
Your haunts in the forest resign;
Shall you, with your true loves, be happy all day,
Whilst I am divided from mine?

Where woodbines and willows inclin'd to unite,
We twisted a blooming alcove;
And oft has my Damon, with smiles of delight,
Declar'd it the Mantle of Love.
The roses that crept to our mutual recess,

The attributes of true love

We call that patience, when provoakt we can
Deferr revenge but 'tis True Love in Man
And when wich open hand we would express
Our bounties Tribut some stil't Lavishnes
But they Mistake as far as those despise
All steps wherby another man doth rise
Yet think they have Love too, and boast noe less
Than that She is their constant Patrones:
If Her Decrees be not to seek Her own

To answer Humours who four Elements chose,
Had need the fift, their quarrels to compose.
Sure it is Love doth all together knit;
Love made the world, and Love preserveth it.
Things diff'rent are, but nothing contrary is,
But as intended, or it is remisse.
Ah! why should Med'ciners in their art agree,
Since Natures self's but Contrariety?

I HEARD Love's voice thrill all the waiting Night,
And I arose and followed where he led:
Then Morning mocked me with revealing light —
The great bright world was empty — Love was dead.

Love begetts Fear

'Twas of thy goodnes (Lord) I had
Knowledg of what was good, what bad
Yet through the ill of nature blind
I followd Sin and leaft thy fear behind
Soe forfaited a Blessing; till
Thou of thy free and gratious will
Sign'dst me a pardon in that stile, repent
And soe eschew all punnishment
Thus then awakend, I began
Thy Judgments, Blessings, Love, and fear to scan
And in a scoal when I them all had waighd
Methought I lov'd (Thee) still, still was afraid.

When shall I join the blessed company
Of those this barren world to me denies?
When shall I wake to the new day's surprise,
Beyond the murmur of death's moaning sea,
In that glad home where my best loved ones be;
And know that I have found my Paradise,
Finding again the love that never dies
The heart's dear welcome, biding there for me?

I wait alone upon life's wind-swept beach —
The waves are high — the sea is wild and wide —
Yet Death, bold pilot, all their wrath shall dare,
And guide me to the shore I fain would reach: —

I.

I SHARE your heart with her, its former Queen,
Who taught your lips the song of love to sing —
To whose high altar you were wont to bring
Such laurels as no Fair since Time hath been
Has decked her brow with. Joy was there and teen,
And reverence, as for some most sacred thing
Set high in Heaven for all men's worshipping;
Such laurels gathers no man twice, I ween.

Your second love, ungarlanded, uncrowned —
Fit for life's daily uses, let us say —
Whose lips have never thrilled you with sweet sound,