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(From “ The Academy of Compliments,” edit. 1671.} Come, Chloris, hie we to the bower,

To sport us ere the day be done! Such is thy power, that every flower

Will ope to thee as to the sun.

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
Straight melt him into cries and tears.
As wings and feet would let each other,
Home he hastens to his mother;
Then on her knees he hangs his head,
And cries, “O mother, I am dead !
An ugly snake, they call a bee,
(O see it swell) hath murder'd me.”
Venus with smiles replied, “O sir,
Does a bee's sting make all this stir ?
Think what pains then attend those darts
Wherewith thou still art wounding hearts.
E’en let it smart !—may chance that then
Thou'lt learn more pity towards men.”

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 ?

Dwell they far off, or dwell they near,
They're all my father's children dear.

Lend me the bright wings of the morn,

That I from hence may take my flight
From Cancer unto Capricorn,
Far swifter than the lamp of night:

Where'er my winged soul doth fly
All's fair and lovely in mine eye.

Features and colours of the hair,

These all do meet in harmony;
The black, the brown, the red, the fair,
All tinctures of variety :

In single simple love alone
These various colours are but one.

l'th' phlegmatic I sweetness find,

The melancholy, grave, and wise ;
The sanguine, merry to my mind,
From choler flames of love arise :

In single simple love alone
All these complexions are but one.

The nightingale doth never say

(Though he be king of melody)
Unto the cuckoo or the jay
Why sing you not so sweet as I ?

Each tunes his harp in love alone,
These various notes are all but one.

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.


[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,

But let my love and me alone!

In vain some dreaming thinking fool

Would make thee o'er our senses reign, And all our noble passions rule,

And constitute this creature man.

In vain some dotard may pretend

Thou art our torch to happiness-
To happiness—which poor mankind

As little know as Paradise.

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.


(In the same Collection.]

(From 6 stanzas.]
Nay, I confess I should despise
A too, too easy-gotten prize!
Be coy, be cruel yet a while,
Nor grant one gracious look or smile!
Then every little grace from thee
Will seem a heaven on earth to me.

If thou would'st have me still love on
With all the flames I first begun,
Then you must still as scornful be:
For, if you once but burn like me,
My flames will languish and be gone,
Like fire shin'd on by the sun.

Nor lay these arts too soon aside,
In hopes your lover fast is tied;

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