At course-a-park, without all doubt,
He should have first been taken out
By all the maids i' the town,

Though lusty Roger there had been,
Or little George upon the Green,
Or Vincent of the Crown.

But wot you what? the Youth was going To make an end of all his wooing ;

The parson for him stay'd

Yet by his leave, for all his haste,
He did not so much wish all past,
Perchance, as did the Maid.

The Maid, and thereby hangs a tale,
For such a Maid no Widson ale
Could ever yet produce:

No grape that's kindly ripe could be
So round, so plump, so soft as she,
Nor half so full of juice.

Her finger was so small the ring Would not stay on which he did bring,

It was too wide a peck;

And to say truth, for out it must,
It look'd like the great collar, just,
About our young colt's neck.

Her feet beneath her petticoat
Like little mice stole in and out,

As if they fear'd the light;

But, Dick! she dances such a way,

No sun upon an Easter day

Is half so fine a sight.

He would have kiss'd her once or twice,

But she would not, she was so nice,

She would not do't in sight;

And then she look'd as who would say
I will do what I list to-day,

And you shall do't at night.

Her cheeks so rare a white was on,
No daisy makes comparison,—

Who seeks them is undone :

For streaks of red were mingled there
Such as are on a Katherine pear,
The side that's next the sun.

Her lips were red, and one was thin,
Compared to that was next her chin,-
Some bee had stung it newly :

But, Dick! her eyes so guard her face,
I durst no more upon them gaze

Than on the sun in July.

Her mouth so small, when she does speak, Thou'dst swear her teeth her words did break, That they might passage get;

But she so handled still the matter,

They came as good as ours, or better,

And are not spent a whit.

If wishing should be any sin
The parson himself had guilty been,
She look'd that day so purely ;
And did the Youth so oft the feat

At night as some did in conceit,

It would have spoil'd him surely.

Passion o' me! how I run on :
There's that that would be thought upon,

I trow, besides the Bride:

The business of the kitchen's great,

For it is fit that men should eat;

Nor was it there denied.

Just in the nick the cook knock'd thrice,

And all the waiters in a trice

His summons did obey;

Each serving-man with dish in hand

March'd boldly up, like our train'd band,
Presented, and away.

When all the meat was on the table

What man of knife, or teeth, was able

To stay to be intreated?

And this the very reason was

Before the parson could say grace

The company was seated.

Now hats fly off, and youths carouse; Healths first go round, and then the house,

The Bride's came thick and thick; And when 'twas named another's health, Perhaps he made it her's by stealth: And who could help it? Dick!

O' the sudden up they rise and dance;
Then sit again, and sigh, and glance;
Then dance again and kiss:

Thus several ways the time did pass,
Whilst every woman wish'd her place,
And every man wish'd his.

By this time all were stolen aside
To counsel and undress the Bride,
But that he must not know:

But it was thought he guess'd her mind,
And did not mean to stay behind

Above an hour or so.

NON EST MORTALE QUOD OPTO.

Thou think'st I flatter, when thy praise I tell,
But thou dost all hyperboles excell;

For I am sure thou art no mortal creature,
But a divine one throned in human feature.
Thy piety is such that Heaven by merit,
If ever any did, thou should'st inherit :
Thy modesty is such that had'st thou been
Tempted as Eve thou would'st have shun'd her sin.
So lovely fair thou art that sure Dame Nature
Meant thee the Pattern of the Female Creature ;
Besides all this thy flowing wit is such

That were it not for thee 't had been too much
For Woman kind; should Envy look thee o'cr,
It would confess thus much, if not much more.
I love thee well, yet wish some bad in thee,
For, sure I am thou art too good for me.

SUCH CONSTANCY.

Out upon it! I have loved

Three whole days together;
And am like to love three more,
If it prove fair weather.

Time shall moult away his wings
Ere he shall discover

In the whole wide world again
Such a constant lover.

But the spite on't is, no praise
Is due at all to me :

Love with me had made no stays

Had it any been but She.

Had it any been but She,

And that very face,

There had been at least ere this
A dozen dozen in her place.

WHY SO PALE?

Why so pale and wan? fond lover!
Prithee, why so pale ?

Will, if looking well can't move her,
Looking ill prevail?

Prithee, why so pale ?

Why so dull and mute? young sinner!
Prithee, why so mute?

Will, when speaking well can't win her,
Saying nothing do't?

Prithee, why so mute?

Quit, quit, for shame! this will not move, This can not take her;

If of herself she will not love,

Nothing can make her :
The Devil take her!

SIR RICHARD FANSHAWE.

1607-1666.

OF BEAUTY.

Let us use it while we may

Snatch those joys that haste away!

Earth her winter coat may cast,

And renew her beauty past :

But, our winter come, in vain

We solicit Spring again;

And when our furrows snow shall cover

Love may return, but never lover.