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DRINK to me only with thine eyes,

And I will pledge with mine; Or leave a kiss but in the cup,

And I'll not ask for wine.
The thirst that from the soul doth risc,

Doth ask a drink divine,
But might I of Jove's nectar sup,

I would not change for thine.

I sent thee late a rosy wreath,

Not so much honouring thee,
As giving it a hope that there

It could not withered be;
But thou thereon didst only breathe,

And sent’st it back to me;
Since when it grows and smells, I swear,

Not of itself, but thee.


STILL to be neat, still to be drest,
As you were going to a feast ;
Still to be powder'd, still perfum’d;
Lady, it is to be presum’d,
Tho' art's hid causes are not found,
All is not sweet, all is not sound.

Give me a look, give me a face,
That makes simplicity a grace;
Robes loosely flowing, hair as free;
Such sweet neglect more taketh me
Than all th' adulteries of art
That strike mine eye, but not mine heart.


Beauties, have'ye seen a toy,
Called Love! a little boy
Almost naked, wanton, blind,
Cruel now, and then as kind ?
If he be among ye, say;
He is Venus' run-away.

She that will but now discover
Where the winged wag doth hover,
Shall to-night receive a kiss,
How and where herself would wish :
But who brings him to his mother,
Shall have that kiss, and another.

Marks he hath about him plenty,
You may know him among twenty :
All his body is a fire,
And his breath a flame entire:
Which, being shot like lightning in,
Wounds the heart, but not the skin.

Wings he hath, which though ye clip,
He will leap from lip to lip:
Over liver, lights, and heart,
Yet not stay in any part.
And if chance his arrow misses,
He will shoot himself in kisses.

He doth bear a golden bow,
And a quiver, hanging low,
Full of arrows, which outbrave
Dian's shafts, where, if he have
Any head more sharp than other,
With that first he strikes his mother.

Still the fairest are his fuel,
When his days are to be cruel ;
Lovers' hearts are all his food,
And his baths their warmest blood :
Nought but wounds his hand doth season,
And he hates none like to reason.

Trust him not; his words, though sweet,
Seldom with his heart do meet:
All his practise is deceit,
Every gift is but a bait:
Not a kiss but poison bears,
And most treason's in his tears.

Idle minutes are his reign,
Then the straggler makes his gain,
By presenting maids with toys,
And would have you think them joys:
'Tis th' ambition of the elf
To have all childish as himself.

If by these ye please to know him,
Beauties, be not nice, but shew him,
Though ye had a will to hide him :
Now, we hope ye'll not abide him,
Since ye hear this falser's play,
And that he is Venus' run-away.


Bishop of Exeter, was born in 1574, and died in retirement,

in 1650. The various literary labours of his long life, and the persecutions to which he was exposed in his old age, are recited in every dictionary of Biography. His only poetical compositions, entitled “ Virgidemiarum, Satires in " six books, 1597," are, from their subject, by no means suited to the present publication ; but it is hoped that the reader will excuse the insertion of one specimen from a work which must, even now, be considered as a model of elegance. The following satire is a ridicule on the fashion of attempting to subject our language to the rules of Greek and Latin prosody, a fashion encouraged by Sir Philip Sidney and others, and not discouraged by Spenser.


Another scorns the home-spun thread of rhymes, Match'd with the lofty feet of elder times. Give me the number'd verse that Virgil sung, And Virgil's self shall speak the English tongue; Manhood and Garboiles shall he chaunt with changed

feet, And headstrong dactyls making musick meet.

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