Beware left Corfus doe corrupt thy minde,
Or fond Ambition fell thy modesty ;

Say, though a King thou even courteous finde,
Hee cannot pardon thy impurity.

Begin with Kings, to fubjects you will fall,
From Lord to Lackey, and at last to all.

See Epigrams fubjoin'd to J. Sylvester's
Du Bartas. 1641. Lond.

The Frailtye and hurtfulnes of Beautie.

BRITTLE Beautie that Nature made fo fraile,

Whereof the gifte is fmal, and short the Seafon ; Flowring to-day, to-morrowe apt to faile,

Tickled treafure, abhorred of reafon :

Dangerous to deale with, vaine, of none availe,
Coftly in keeping, past, not worthe two peason ;
Slipper in fliding, as is an Eles taile ;

Harde to attain, once gotten not geafon.
Jewell of jeopardie, that peril doth affaile,
Falfe and untrewe, enticed oft to treason;
Enemy to Youth, that most may I bewaile;
Ah bitter fwete! infecting as the poyfon,
Thou farest as frute, that with the froft is taken,
To-day redy ripe, to-morrow al to fhaken

Lord SURREY.

To

TO THE ROSE

SWEET Rofe, whence is this hue

Which does all hues excell?
Whence this most fragrant fmell?

And whence this form and gracing grace in you?
In flow'ry Poftum's fields perhaps you grew,
Or Hybla's hills you bred,

Or odoriferous Enna's plains you fed,

Or Tmolus, or where boar young Adon flew;
Or hath the Queen of Love you dy'd of new
In that dear blood, which makes you look fo red?

No, none of these, but cause more high you blist,
My Lady's breast you bore, her lips you kift.

Drummond's Son, and Madrig,
Edinb. Ed. 1711. Fol.

RY thofe fair, thofe chrystal eyes
Which like growing fountains rife

To drown their banks. Griefs fullen brooks
Would better flow in furrow'd looks.

Thy lovely face was never meant

To be the fhoar of discontent.

VOL. II.

H

Then

;

Then clear those wat'rish starres again,
Which else portend a lasting rain
Left the clouds which fettle there
Prolong my Winter all the Year:
And the example others make
In love with Sorrow for thy fake.

100

MADRIGAL.

MY Thoughts hold mortal strife,

I do deteft my life,

And with lamenting cries

Peace to my foul to bring,

Oft call that Prince, which here doth monarchize,

But he grim grinning King,

Who catives fcorns, and doth the bleft surprise
Late having deckt with Beauty's Rofe his tomb,
Difdains to crop a weed, and will not come.

Drummond. Edinb. 1711. Fol. Ed.

SONNET S.