To

May's sweet roses deck her face,

Angels listen when she sings;

Round her flits each winning grace;

Youth its charms about her flings.

Gentle are her starry eyes,

Rich and soft her dark brown hair;

Olden Greece had no such prize,

Venus was not half so fair.

Every soft attractive spell

Finds within her heart a goal;

Loveliness and goodness dwell

Orb-like in her heavenly soul.

O, divine enchantress bright!

Dare I love thy looks of light?

BRALLAGHAN,

OR THE

Deipnosophists.

This little book is lyke a furnished feast,
And hath a dish I hope to please each gueste:
Here thou may'st find some goode and solid fare
If thou lov'st pleasant junkets, here they are;
Perhaps sharpe sauces take thee most, if soe
I have cookt for thee some sharp sauces too
But if thy squeamish stomacke can like none,
Nobody hinders thee, thou may'st be gone.