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PHINEAS AND GILES FLETCHER. 161
To deck his beauteous head in snowy 'tire ;
But all in vain : for who can hope t aspire To such a Fair, which none attain, but all admire ?
Her ruby lips lock up from gazing sight
A troop of pearls, which march in goodly row : But when she deigns those precious bones undight, Soon heav'nly notes from those divisions flow, And with rare musick charm the ravish'd
ears, Daunting bold thoughts, but cheering modest
fears : The spheres so only sing, so only charm the
Her dainty breasts, like to an April rose
From green silk fillets yet not all unbound, Began their little rising heads disclose, And fairly spread their silver circlets round : From those two bulwarks love doth safely
Which swelling easily, may seem to sight To be enwombed both of pleasure and delight.
Yet all these stars which deck this beauteous sky
By force of th' inward sun both shine and move ;
As when a taper shines in glassy frame,
flame, So does that brightest love brighten this lovely
MUTABILITY OF HUMAN GREATNESS.
[From the Purple Island.] Fond man, that looks on earth for happiness,
And here long seeks what here is never found !
Nor can we pay the fine, and rentage due :
Why shouldst thou here look for perpetual good,
At ev'ry loss 'gainst Heav'n's face repining ?
And loving pelican in fancy breeds :
Where is the Assyrian lion's golden hide,
That all the east once grasp'd in lordly paw ? Where that great Persian bear, whose swelling
Or he which 'twixt a lion and a pard,
BORN ABOUT 1570-DIED 1637.
Kisse me, sweet : the wary lover
SONG TO CELIA. DRINK to me only with thine eyes,
And I will pledge with mine ;
And I'll not looke for wine.
Doth aske a drink divine :
I would not change for thine.
I sent thee, late, a rosie wreath,
Not so much honoring thee,
It could not withered be.
And sent'st it back to me:
Not of itselfe, but thee.
THE SWEET NEGLECT.
STILL to be neat, still to be drest
Than all th' adulteries of art ;
TO THE WORLD.
A FAREWELL FOR A GENTLE WOMAN, VIRTUOUS AND NOBLE.
FALSE world, good night, since thou hast brought
That houre upon my morne of age,
My part is ended on thy stage.
A spirit so resolv'd to tread
From all the nets that thou canst spread. I know thy formes are studied arts,
Thy subtill wayes, be narrow straits ; Thy curtesie but sudden starts,
And what thou call'st thy gifts are baits. I know too, though thou strut and paint,
Yet art thou both shrunke up, and old ; That onely fooles make thee a saint,
And all thy good is to be sold. I know thou whole art but a shop
Of toyes, and trifles, traps, and snares, To take the weake, or make them stop :
Yet art thou falser than thy wares. And, knowing this, should I yet stay,
Like such as blow away their lives, And never will redeme a day,
Enamor'd of their golden gyves Or having scap'd, shall I returne,
And thrust my neck into the noose,