Ask me no more if East or West, And in your fragrant bosome dies. Thomas Carew. To Roses in the bosome of Castara. Ee blushing Virgins happy are ry her In the chaste Nunn'ry of her brests, -\' Transplanted thus how bright yee grow; In those white cloysters live secure pure, Then that which living gave you roome There wants no marble for a tombe, William Habington. Sonnet. F thee (kind boy) I ask no red and white OF no odd becomming graces, Black eyes, or little know-not-whats, in faces; Some Bayes (perchance) or Myrtle bough, For difference crowns the brow Of those kind souls that were The noble Martyrs here; And if that be the onely odds (As who can tell) ye kinder Gods, Give me the Woman here. Sir John Suckling. 30 Y dearest Rival, least our Love M'should with excentrique motion move, Before it learn to go astray, Wee'l teach and set it in a way, And such directions give unto't, That it shall never wander foot. Know first then, we will serve as true IO 20 |