Starve not yourself, because you may
Thereby make me pine away :
Nor let brittle beauty make
You your wiser thoughts forsake!
For that lovely face will fail:
Beauty's sweet, but beauty's frail;
'Tis sooner past, 'tis sooner done,
Than summer's rain or winter's sun;
Most fleeting, when it is most dear;

'Tis

gone, while we but say 'tis here! These curious locks, so aptly twin'd, Whose every hair and soul doth bind, Will change their auburn hue, and grow White and cold as winter's snow.

That

eye, which now is Cupid's nest, Will prove his grave; and all the rest Will follow; in the cheek, chin, nose, Nor lily shall be found, nor rose. And what will then become of all Those whom now you servants call? Like swallows, when your summer's done, They'll fly, and seek some warmer sun. Then wisely choose one to your friend, Whose love may (when your beauties end) Remain still firm: be provident,

And think before the summer's spent

Of following winter like the ant

:

In plenty hoard for time of scant,

Call out, amongst the multitude
Of lovers that seek to intrude
Into your favour, one that may
Love for an age, not for a day,

For, when the storms of time have mov'd
Waves on that cheek which was belov'd;
When a fair lady's face is pin'd,

And yellow spread where red once shin'd;
When beauty, youth, and all sweets leave her,
Love may return, but lover never!

And old folks say there are no pains
Like itch of love in aged veins.
Oh, love me then! and now begin it;
Let us not lose this present minute!
For time and age will work that wrack,
Which time or age shall ne'er call back.
The snake each fresh skin resumes,

year

And eagles change their aged plumes;
The faded rose each spring receives
A fresh red tincture on her leaves:
But if your beauties once decay,
You never know a second May.

O then be wise! and whilst your season
Affords you days for sport, do reason!
Spend not in vain your life's short hour,
But crop in time your beauty's flower,

Which will away, and doth together

Both bud and fade, both blow and wither!

SONG.

Persuasions to enjoy.

If the quick spirits in your eye
Now languish, and anon must die;
If every sweet, and every grace
Must fly from that forsaken face;
Then, Celia, let us reap our joys
Ere time such goodly fruit destroys.

Or, if that golden fleece must grow
For ever free from aged snow;

If those bright suns must know no shade,

Nor

your fresh beauties ever fade;

Then fear not, Celia, to bestow

What, still being gather'd, still must grow.

Thus either Time his sickle brings
In vain, or else in vain his wings.

Good Counsel to a young Maid.

WHEN you the sun-burnt pilgrim see,
Fainting with thirst, haste to the springs;
Mark how, at first, with bended knee

He courts the crystal Nymphs, and flings

His body to the earth, where he
Prostrate adores the flowing deity.

But when his sweaty face is drench'd

In her cool waves, when from her sweet Bosom his burning thirst is quench'd,

Then mark how with disdainful feet

He kicks her banks, and from the place
That thus refresh'd him moves with sullen pace.

So shalt thou be despis'd, fair maid,

When by the sated lover tasted!

What first he did with tears invade

Shall afterwards with scorn be wasted:

When all thy virgin springs grow dry,

When no streams shall be left but in thine

eye.

Disdain returned.

He that loves a rosy cheek,
Or a coral lip admires,
Or from star-like eyes doth seek
Fuel to maintain his fires,-
As old Time makes these decay,
So his flames must waste away.

But a smooth and stedfast mind,
Gentle thoughts, and calm desires,

Hearts with equal love combin'd,
Kindle never-dying fires.

Where these are not, I despise

Lovely cheeks, or lips, or eyes.

*

The Primrose.

Ask me why I send you here
This firstling of the infant year;
Ask me why I send to you

This primrose, all bepearl'd with dew ;-
I straight will whisper in your ears,
The sweets of love are wash'd with tears.
Ask me why this flower doth shew
So yellow, green, and sickly too;
Ask me why the stalk is weak,
And bending, yet it doth not break;-
I must tell you, these discover
What doubts and fears are in a lover.

The Inquiry.

AMONGST the myrtles as I walk'd,
Love and my sighs thus intertalk'd:
"Tell me," said I in deep distress,
"Where may I find my shepherdess ?"