Sed cur, heu Ligurine, cur

Manat rara meas lachryma per genas?
Cur facunda parum decoro

Inter verba cadit lingua silentio?
Nocturnis te ego Somniis

Jam captum teneo, jam volucrem sequor :
Te per gramina Martii

Hor.

Lyd.

Hor.

Lyd.

Hor.

Lyd.

Campi, te per aquas, dure, volubileis.

Ode ix. lib. 3. Ad Lydiam.

Dialogus Horatii & Lydiæ.
DONEC gratus eram tibi,

Nec quisquam potior brachia candida
Cervici juvenis dabat;
Persarum vigui rege beatior.

Donec non alia magis

Arsisti, neque erat Lydia post Chloën,

Multi Lydia nominis

Romana vigui clarior Ilia.

Me nunc Thressa Cloë regit,

Dulceis docta modos, & Citharæ sciens:
Pro qua non metuam mori,

Si parcent animæ fata superstiti.
Me torret face mutua

Thurini Calais filius Ornithi:
Pro quo bis patiar mori,

Si parcent puero fata superstiti.
Quid si prisca redit Venus,
Diductosque jugo cogit aheneo?
Si flava excutitur Chloë
Rejectæque patet janua Lydia?
Qanquam sidere pulchrior

Ille est, tu levior Cortice, & improbo
Iracundior Adria,

Tecum vivere amem, tecum obeam libens.

But, why, oh why, my Ligurine,

Flow my thin teares, downe these pale cheeks of mine?
Or why, my well-grac'd words among,
With an uncomely silence failes my tongue?
Hard-hearted, I dreame every Night

I hold thee fast! but fled hence, with the Light,
Whether in Mars his field thou bee,
Or Tybers winding streames, I follow thee.

Hor.

Lyd.

Hor.

Lyd.

Hor.

Lyd.

J.

Ode ix. 3 Booke, to Lydia.

Dialogue of Horace, and Lydia.
WHILST, Lydia, I was lov'd of thee,
And ('bout thy Ivory neck,) no youth did fling,
His armes more acceptable free,

I thought me richer then the Persian King.
Whilst Horace lov'd no Mistres more,

Nor after Cloë did his Lydia sound;

In name, I went all names before,

The Roman Ilia was not more renown'd.
'T is true, I'am Thracian Chloes, I

Who sings so sweet, and with such cunning plaies,
As, for her, I'l'd not feare to die,

So Fate would give her life, and longer daies.
And, I am mutually on fire

With gentle Calais Thurine, Orniths Sonne;
For whom I doubly would expire,

So Fates would let the Boy a long thred run.
But, say old Love returne should make,
And us dis-joyn'd force to her brazen yoke,
That I bright Cloë off should shake;
And to left-Lydia, now the gate stood ope.
Though he be fairer then a Starre;
Thou lighter then the barke of any tree,
And then rough Adria, angrier, farre;

Yet would I wish to love, live, die with thee.

Fragmentum Petron. Arbitr.

FOEDA est in coitu, & brevis voluptas,
Et tædet Veneris statim per actæ.
Non ergo ut pecudes libidinosæ,
Cæci protinus irruamus illuc:

Nam languescit Amor peritque Flamma.
Sed sic, sic, sine fine feriati,

Et tecum jaceamus osculantes:
Hic nullus labor est, ruborque nullus;
Hoc juvit, juvat, & diu juvabit:
Hoc non deficit, incipitque semper.

Epigramma Martialis

Lib. viii. Lxxvii.

LIBER, amicorum dulcissima cura tuorum,
Liber in æterna vivere digne rosâ;
Si sapis Assyrio semper tibi crinis amomo
Splendeat, & cingant florea serta caput:
Candida nigrescant vetulo christalla Falerno,
Et caleat blando mollis amore thorus.
Qui sic, vel medio finitus vixit in ævo.
Longior huic facta, quam data vita fuit.

The same translated.

DOING, a filthy pleasure is, and short;
And done, we straight repent us of the sport:
Let us not then rush blindly on unto it,
Like lustfull beasts, that onely know to doe it:
For lust will languish, and that heat decay,
But thus, thus, keeping endlesse Holy-day,
Let us together closely lie, and kisse,

There is no labour, nor no shame in this ;

This hath pleas'd, doth please, and long will please; never Can this decay, but is beginning ever.

The same translated.

LIBER, of all thy friends, thou sweetest care,
Thou worthy in eternall Flower to fare,
If thou be'st wise, with 'Syrian Oyle let shine
Thy locks, and rosie garlands crowne thy head;
Darke thy cleare glasse with old Falerian Wine;
And heat, with softest love, thy softer bed.
Hee, that but living halfe his dayes, dies such,
Makes his life longer then 't was given him, much.

THE KINGS

ENTERTAINMENT

AT WELBECK
IN

NOTTINGHAMSHIRE,

A house of the Right Honourable, William
Earle of Newcastle, Vicount Mansfield, Baron of
Botle, and Bolsover, &c.

At his going into Scotland.

1633.

His Matie being set at Dinner,
A Song was sung:

A Dialogue betweene the Passions,
Doubt and Love.

Doubt. WHAT softer sounds are these salute the Eare
From the large Circle of the Hemisphere,

Love.

Chorus.

Of Affections, Joy.

Delight, &c.

As if the Center of all sweets met here!
It is the breath, and Soule of every thing,
Put forth by Earth, by Nature, and the Spring,
To speake the Welcome, Welcome of the King.
The joy of plants. The spirit of flowers,
The smell, and verdure of the bowers,
The waters murmure; with the showers
Distilling on the new-fresh howers:
The whistling winds, and birds, that sing
The Welcome of our great, good King.
Welcome, O Welcome, is the generall voyce,
Wherein all Creatures practize to rejoyce.