Ask me no more if East or West,
The Phenix builds her spicy nest :
For unto you at last she flyes,

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, -\'
For hee'd prophane so chaste a faire,
Who ere should call them Cupids nests.

Transplanted thus how bright yee grow;
How rich a perfume doe yee yeeld?
In some close garden, Cowslips so
Are sweeter then i' th' open field.

In those white cloysters live secure
From the rude blasts of wanton breath,
Each houre more innocent and

pure,

Then that which living gave you roome
Your glorious sepulcher shall be,

There wants no marble for a tombe,
Whose brest hath marble beene to me.

William Habington.

Sonnet.

F thee (kind boy) I ask no red and white
to make up my delight,

OF

no odd becomming graces,

Black eyes, or little know-not-whats, in faces;
Make me but mad enough, give me good store
Of Love, for her I court,

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.

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Y dearest Rival, least our Love

M'should with excentrique motion move,
Μ with

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
For one poor smile, as we would do
If we had what our higher flame,
Or our vainer wish could frame.
Impossible shall be our hope;
And Love shall onely have his scope
To joyn with Fancy now and then,
And think what reason would condemn :
And on these grounds wee'l love as true,
As if they were most sure t'ensue:
And chastly for these things wee'l stay,
As if to morrow were the day.
Mean time we two will teach our hearts
In Loves burdens bear their parts:
Thou first shall sigh, and say shee's fair;
And I'le still answer, past compare.

IO

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