UNCERTAIN AUTHORS. SONG. [From "The Academy of Compliments," edit. 1671.] COME, Chloris, hie we to the bower, Will And if a flower but chance to die With my sighs' blast or mine eyes' rain, Thou can'st revive it with thine eye, And with thy breath make sweet again. The wanton suckling, and the vine, Will strive for th' honour, who first may With their green arms encircle thine, To keep the burning sun away. [From "Windsor Drollery," London, 1672.] CUPID once was weary grown With women's errands-laid him down On a refreshing rosy bed : The same sweet covert harboured A bee; and as she always had A quarrel with love's idle lad, Stings the soft boy: pain and strong fears Then on her knees he hangs his head, A Catholic Hymn. [Printed among other "Miscellanies in "The Poems of Ben Johnson, junior," 1672. It is also to be found in "Withers Redivivus, in a small new-year's-gift," 4to, 1689, and there called, “A copy from verses long since made." The text of the latter has been preferred in the following extract.] OPINION rules the human state, And domineers in every land: Shall sea or mountain separate Whom God hath join'd in nature's band? Lend me the bright wings of the morn, Far swifter than the lamp of night: Features and colours of the hair, In single simple love alone These various colours are but one. I' th' phlegmatic I sweetness find, All these complexions are but one. The nightingale doth never say Unto the cuckoo or the jay, Why sing you not so sweet as I ? With open arms let me embrace The Heathen, Christian, Turk, or Jew, The lovely and deformed face, The sober and the jovial crew. In single simple love alone All forms and features are but one. Reason. [In "Miscellany Poems and Translations by Oxford hands." Printed for Anthony Stephens, 1685, 8vo.] [From 8 stanzas.] REASON, thou vain impertinence, Deluding hypocrite, begone! And go and plague your men of sense, In vain some dreaming thinking fool And all our noble passions rule, And constitute this creature man. In vain some dotard may pretend At best, thou'rt but a glimmering light, Which serves not to direct our way; But, like the moon, confounds our sight, And only shows it is not day. Coyness. [In the same Collection.] [From 6 stanzas.] NAY, I confess I should despise If thou would'st have me still love on Nor lay these arts too soon aside, |