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By which wee note the fairies
Were of the old profession : Their songs were Ave Maries,
Their dances were procession. But now, alas! they all are dead,
Or gone beyond the seas, Or farther for religion fied,
Or else they take their ease. A tell-tale in their company
They never could endure; And whoso kept not secretly
Their mirth, was punish'd sure:
To pinch such blacke and blue:
Such justices as you !
A Register they have,
A man both wise and grave.
By one that I could name
To William Churne of Staffordshire
Give laud and praises due, Who every meale can mend your cheare
With tales both old and true; To William all give audience,
And pray yee for his noddle; Por all the fairies evidence
Were lost, if it were addle.
Then, Celia, let us reap our joys,
Or, if that golden fleece must grow
Thus, either Time his sickle brings
E that loves a rosy cheek,
Or a coral lip admires,
Fuel to maintain his fires;
Gentle thoughts, and calm desires,
Kindle never-dying fires; Where these are not, I despise Lovely cheeks, or lips, or eyes.
ASK me, why I send you here,
This firstling of the winter year;
Love and my sighs thus intertalked : “ Tell me (said I, in deep distress) “ Where may I find my shepherdess ?" “Thou fool (said Love), know'st thou not this, " In every thing that's good she is ? “In yonder tulip go and seek, " There may'st thou find her lip, her cheek: “In yon enamell’d pansy by,
There thou shalt have her curious eye ; “In bloomy peach, in rosy bud,
There wave the streamers of her blood." “ 'Tis true," said I; and thereupon I went to pluck them one by one, "To make of parts a union :, But, on a sudden, all was gone, With that I stopt; said Love," These be, “Fond man, resemblances of thee. "And, as these flow'rs, thy joys shall die, “ Ev'n in the twinkling of an eye: “ And all thy hopes of her shall wither "Like those short sweets thips knit together."
UNGRATEFUL BEAUTY THREATENED. KNOW, Celia (since thou art so proud)
'Twas I that gave thee thy renown; Thou hadst, in the forgotten crowd
Of common beauties, liv'd unknown, Had not my verse exhald thy name, And with it impt the wings of fame. That killing power is none of thine,
I gave it to thy voice and eyes; Thy sweets, thy graces, all are mine;
Thou art my star, shin'st in my skies : Then dart not from thy borrow'd sphere Lightning on him that fix'd thee there. Tempt me with such affrights no more,
Lest what I made I uncreate,
I'll know thee in thy mortal state.
NOW that the Winter's gone, the Earth hath lost Her snow-white robes; and now no more the
Frost Candies the grass, or casts an icy cream Upon the silver lake, or crystal stream: But the warm Sun thaws the benumbed earth, And makes it tender ; gives a second birth To the dead swallow; wakes in hollow tree The drowsy cuckoo, and the humble bee. Now, do a choir of Chirping Minstrels' bring In triumph to the world the youthful Spring; The valleys, hills and woods, in rich array, Welcome the Morning of the longed-for May. Now all things smile! only my Love doth lour! Nor hath the scalding noon-day sun the pow'r i
To melt the marble ice that still doth hold
When June is past, the fading rose?