That cures one sickness with another, This poets makes, else how could I Nay, and write sonnets too? If there's such power in junior wines, Then squeeze the vessel's bowels out, Crown each hand with a brimmer: And every soul a swimmer! ALEXANDER BROME, SONG. THE SOLDIER GOING TO THE FIELD. [1666?] PRESERVE thy fighs, unthrifty girl, Thy tears to thread instead of pearl The trumpet makes the echo hoarse, When sorrow should be dumb. For I must go where lazy Peace But first I'll chide thy cruel theft. Can have no heart to fight? Thou know' the sacred laws of old Thy payment shall but double be: Accompanied with thine. SIR WILLIAM DAVENANT. SONG. [1666] THE lark now leaves his watery nest, The merchant bows unto the seaman's star, Who look for day before his mistress wakes. Awake, awake, break through your veils of lawn, Then draw your curtains, and begin the dawn. SIR WILLIAM DAVENANT. TO CHLORIS. [1670?] FAREWELL, my sweet, until I come, To loyalty my love must bow, My honour too calls to the field, Muft keen and sturdy iron wield. Yet, when I rush into those arms, I fhall less subject be to harms, Since I could live in thy disdain, But if I seem to fall in war, As in thy heart t' acknowledge it. That's all I afk; which thou must give SONG. CHARLES COTTON. [1670?] I. PHILLIS, men say that all my vows Are to thy fortune paid; Who thinks my love a trade. II. Were I of all these woods the lord, III. My humble love has learned to live Without a conscious blush, may give Beneath the myrtle-shade. SIR CHARLES SEDLEY. SONG. [1670?] NOT, Celia, that I jufter am, Or better than the reft, For I would change each hour like them, But I am tied to very thee, All that in roman is adored For the whole sex can but afford Why then should I seek farther store, When change itself can give no more, SIR CHARLES SEDLEY. OUT OF LYCOPHRON. [1670?] WHAT fhall become of Man so wise, None can tell Whether he goes to Heaven or Hell: |