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

spheres,

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

fight;

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 ;
Thron'd in her heart sits love's high majesty ;
In highest majesty the highest love.

As when a taper shines in glassy frame,
The sparkling crystal burns in glitt'ring

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 ! For all our good we hold from Heav'n by lease, With many forfeits and conditions bound;

Nor can we pay the fine, and rentage due :
Though now but writ, and seal'd, and giv'n

anew,
Yet daily we it break, then daily must renew.

Why shouldst thou here look for perpetual good,

At ev'ry loss 'gainst Heav'n's face repining ? Do but behold where glorious cities stood, With gilded tops and silver turrets shining ; There now the hart fearless of greyhound

feeds,

And loving pelican in fancy breeds : There screeching satyrs fill the people's empty

stedes. (@)

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

pride
The lion's self tore out with rav'nous jaw ?

Or he which 'twixt a lion and a pard,
Through all the world with nimble pinions

far'd, And to his greedy whelps his conquer'd kingdoms

shar'd.

(a) Places.

BEN JONSON.

BORN ABOUT 1570-DIED 1637.

TO CELIA.

Kisse me, sweet : the wary lover
Can your favours keepe, and cover,
When the common courting jay
All your bounties will betray.
Kisse againe : no creature comes.
Kisse, and score up wealthy summes
On my lips, thus hardly sundred,
While you breathe. First give a hundred,
Then a thousand, then another
Hundred, then unto the tother
Adde a thousand, and so more :
Till you equall with the store
All the grasse that Rumney yields,
Or the sands in Chelsey fields,
Or the drops in silver Thames,
Or the stars that gild his streames,
In the silent sommer-nights,
When youths ply their stoln delights.
That the curious may not know
How to tell 'em as they flow,
And the envious, when they find
What their number is, be pin’d.

SONG TO CELIA. DRINK to me only with thine eyes,

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

And I'll not looke for wine.
The thirst, that from the soule doth rise,

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

I would not change for thine.

I sent thee, late, a rosie wreath,

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

It could not withered be.
But thou thereon did’st only breathe, .

And sent'st it back to me:
Since when, it growes, and smells, I sweare,

Not of itselfe, but thee.

THE SWEET NEGLECT.
STILL to be neat, still to be drest
As you were going to a feast ;
Still to be powdered, still perfum'd :
Lady, it is to be presum'd,
Though 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 ;
They strike mine eyes, but not my heart.

TO THE WORLD.

A FAREWELL FOR A GENTLEWOMAN, VIRTUOUS AND NOBLE.

FALSE world, good night, since thou hast brought

That houre upon my morne of age,
Henceforth I quit thee from my thought,

My part is ended on thy stage.
Doe not once hope, that thou canst tempt

A spirit so resolv'd to tread
Upon thy throat, and live exempt

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,