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SONG.

[1654.]

SOLITUDE, of friends the best,

And the best companion ;

Mother of truths, and brought at least

Every day to bed of one;

In this flowery mansion

I contemplate how the rose

Stands upon thorns, how quickly goes

The dismaying jelamine:

Only the soul, which is divine,

No decay of beauty knows.

The World is Beauty's Mirror. Flowers,

In their first virgin purity,

Flatterers both of the nose and eye

To be cropped by paramours

Is their best of destiny :

And those nice darlings of the land,

Which seemed heaven's painted bow to scorn,

And bloomed the envy of the morn,

Are the gay trophy of a hand.

SIR RICHARD FANSHAW.

SONG.

[1654.]

STILL-BORN Silence, thou that art

Floodgate of the deeper heart;

Offspring of a heavenly kind;

Froft o' th' mouth, and thaw o' th' mind;

Secrecy's confident, and he

That makes religion Mystery:
Admiration's speaking'st tongue,-
Leave thy desert fhades, among
Reverend hermits' hallowed cells,

Where retired' Devotion dwells:

With thy enthusiasms come;

Seize this maid, and make her dumb.

RICHARD FLECKNOE.

ON CHLORIS WALKING IN THE SNOW.

[1654.]

I SAW fair Chloris walk alone,

When feathered rain came softly down;
Then Jove descended from his tower,
To woo her in a filver shower.
The wanton snow flew to her breast,
Like little birds into their nest;
But overcome with whiteness there,
For grief it thawed into a tear:
Then falling down her garment hem,
To deck her, froze into a gem.

WIT'S RECREATIONS.

SONG.

[1657.]

I.

TELL me no more how fair fhe is,

I have no mind to hear

The ftory of that diftant bliss
I never shall come near:
By sad experience I have found
That her perfection is my wound.

II.

And tell me not how fond I am
To tempt a daring fate,

From whence no triumph ever came,

But to repent too late:

There is some hope ere long I may

In filence dote myself away.

III.

I afk no pity, love, from thee,

Nor will thy justice blame, So that thou wilt not envy me The glory of my flame:

Which crowns my heart whene'er it dies,

In that it falls her sacrifice.

HENRY KING, Bishop of Chichester.

FAIRY SONG.

[1658.]

COME, follow, follow me,
You, fairy elves that be,
Which circle on the green,

Come, follow Mab, your Queen.
Hand in hand let's dance around,
For this place is fairy ground.

When mortals are at reft,
And snoring in their nest,
Unheard, and unespied,

Through keyholes we do glide;
Over tables, ftools, and shelves,
We trip it with our fairy elves.

And if the house be foul
With platter, dish, or bowl,
Up ftairs we nimbly creep,
And find the fluts afleep:

There we pinch their arms and thighs;
None escapes, nor none espies.

But if the house be swept,

And from uncleanness kept,
We praise the household maid,
And duly he is paid;

For we use, before we go,
To drop a tefter in her shoe.

Upon a mushroom's head
Our table-cloth we spread;
A grain of rye or wheat
Is manchet which we eat;
Pearly drops of dew we drink,
In acorn-cups filled to the brink.

The brains of nightingales,
With unctuous fat of snails,
Between two cockles ftewed,

Is meat that's easily chewed;
Tails of worms, and marrow of mice,
Do make a dish that's wondrous nice.

The grasshopper, gnat, and fly,
Serve us for our minstrelsy;
Grace said, we dance awhile,
And so the time beguile;

And if the moon doth hide her head,
The glow-worm lights us home to bed.

On tops of dewy grass

So nimbly do we pass,

The young and tender stalk

Ne'er bends when we do walk:

Yet in the morning may be seen

Where we the night before have been.

MYSTERIES OF LOVE AND ELOQUENCE.

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