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From the Golden Age, by Thomas Heywoodi 161.

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$, Tell me what


thinke on earth
The greatest blisse:
D. Riches, honor, and high birth.
S. Ah what is this,

If love be banished the heart,
The joy of nature, not of art?
Whats hobor, worth, or ligh descent,

Or ample wealth,
If cares do breed us discontent,

Or want of health?
D. It is the order of the fates,

That these should wait on highest states.

Chorus. Love only does our soules refine,

And by his skill
Turnes humane things into divine,

And guides our will.
Then let us of his praises sing ;
Of love that sweetens every thing.

From the Shepheards Holy-day. 1635.



Come, lovely boy, unto my court,
And leave these uncouth woods, and all
That feed thy fancy with loves gall,

But keepe away the honey and the sport.

Come unto me,

And with variety
Thou shalt be fed, which nature loves and I.

There is no musique in a voice
That is but one and still the same.
Inconstancy is but a name

To fright poore lovers from a better choice.
CHOR. Come then to me, &c.

Orpheus that on Euridice
Spent all his love, on others scorne,
Now on the bankes of Heber torne,

Finds the reward of foolish constancy.

Come then to me

And sigh no more for one love lost,
I have a thousand Cupids here,
Shall recompence with better cheere

Thy mis-spent labours and thy better cost.
CHOR. Come then to me

From the same.

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What need we use many beseeches,
Or trouble our brain with long speeches;

If we love, tis enough,

Hang poetical stuff,
As the rule of honesty teaches.

If we love, &c.

Сно. .

Why should we stand whining like fools,
Or woe by platonical rules;

If they love, we'll repayt,

If not, let em sayt,
What need they the help of the schools.

If they love, &c.

Сно. .

But they must be won by romances,
And that by verse and fine dances :

A third do's delight

In a song, yet at night
You must crack a string which she fancies.

If they love, &c.


This must be extolled to the sky
That you get, do but flatter and lye:

But that ladis for me,

That loves fine and free,
As real and ready as I.

But that ladis for &c.

Сно. .


From the English Rogue, by T. Thompson. 1668.


Fond Love, no more
Will I adore

Thy fei ned Deity.
Go throw thy darts
At simple hearts,

And prove thy victory.

Whilst I do keep
My harmless sheep,

Love hath no power on me.
Tis idle soules
Which he controules,

The busie man is free.

From Loves Labyrinth, or the Royal Shepherdess, by Tho. Forde Philothal. 1660.


Thine eyes to me like sunnes appeare,

Or brighter starres their light,
Which makes it sunimer all the yeare,

Or else a day of night:
But truely I do think they are
But eyes--and neither sunne nor starre.

Thy brow is as the milky way,

Whereon the gods might trace
Thy lips ambrosia, I dare say,

Or nectar of thy face.

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But to speake truely, I doe vowe,
They are but womans lips and browe,

Thy cheeke it is a mingled bath

Of lillyes and of roses;
But here theres no man power

To gather loves fresh posies.
Beleeve it here the flowers that bud,
Are but a womans flesh and blood.

Thy nose a promontory faire,

Thy necke a necke of land;
At natures giftes that are so rare,

All men amazed do stand.
But to the cleerer judgment, those
Are but a womans necke and nose.

For foure lines in passion I can dye,

As is the lovers guise,
And dabble too in poetry,

Whilst love possest the wise.
As greatest statesmen, or as those
That know love þest, get him in prose.

From the Variety. A Comedy. 1649.


Not hee that knows how to acquire,

But to enjoy, is blest;
Nor does our happinesse consist

In motion, but in rest.


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