Up then to th' head with his best art
Full of spite and envy blown,

At her constant marble heart,

He draws his swiftest surest dart, Which bounded back and hit his own.

Now the prince of fires burns!

Flames in the lustre of her eyes; Triumphant she, refuses, scorns; He submits, adores, and mourns, And is his vot'ress' sacrifice.

Foolish boy! resolve me now

What 'tis to sigh and not be heard? He weeping, kneel'd, and made a vow, The world shall love as yon' fast two, So on his sing'd wings up he steer'd.

A LOOSE SARABAND.

SET BY MR. HENRY LAWES.

AH me! the little tyrant thief!
As once my heart was playing,
He snatch'd it up and flew away,
Laughing at all my praying.

Proud of his purchase he surveys,
And curiously sounds it,

And though he sees it full of wounds,
Cruel still on he wounds it.

And now this heart is all his sport,
Which as a ball he boundeth
From hand to breast, from breast to lip,
And all its rest confoundeth.

Then as a top he sets it up,
And pitifully whips it;

Sometimes he clothes it gay and fine,
Then straight again he strips it.

He cover'd it with false belief,
Which gloriously show'd it;
And for a morning-cushionet

On's mother he bestow'd it.

Each day with her small brazen stings, A thousand times she rac'd it;

But then at night, bright with her gems, Once near her breast she plac'd it.

There warm it 'gan to throb and bleed;
She knew that smart and grieved;
At length this poor condemned heart
With these rich drugs reprieved.

She wash'd the wound with a fresh tear,
Which my Lucasta dropped,

And in the sleave-silk of her hair
"Twas hard bound up and wrapped.

She prob'd it with her constancy,
And found no rancour nigh it;
Only the anger of her eye,

Had wrought some proud flesh by it.

Then press'd she Nard in ev'ry vein
Which from her kisses trilled;
And with the balm heal'd all its pain
That from her hand distilled.

But yet this heart avoids me still,
Will not by me be owned;
But's fled to its physician's breast,
There proudly sits enthroned.

A FORSAKEN LADY

TO HER FALSE SERVANT THAT IS DISDAINED BY HIS
NEW MISTRESS.

WERE it that you so shun me 'cause you wish
(Cruel'st) a fellow in your wretchedness,
Or that you take some small ease in your own
Torments, to hear another sadly groan,

I were most happy in my pains, to be
So truly bless'd, to be so curs'd by thee:
But oh! my cries to that do rather add,
Of which too much already thou hast had,
And thou art gladly sad to hear my moan;
Yet sadly hear'st me with derisiön.

Thou most unjust, that really dost know, And feel'st thyself the flames I burn in, oh! How can you beg to be set loose from that Consuming stake you bind another at?

Uncharitablest both ways, to deny
That pity me, for which yourself must die;
To love not her loves you, yet know the pain
What 'tis to love, and not be lov'd again.

Fly on, fly on, swift racer, until she

Whom thou of all ador'st shall learn of thee, The pace t'outfly thee, and shall teach thee groan, What terror 'tis t'outgo and be outgone.

Nor yet look back, nor yet, must we Run then like spokes in wheels eternally And never overtake? Be dragg'd on still By the weak cordage of your untwin'd will, Round without hope of rest? No, I will turn, And with my goodness boldly meet your scorn; My goodness, which heav'n pardon, and that fate Made you hate love, and fall in love with hate.

But I am chang'd! bright reason that did give My soul a noble quickness, made me live One breath yet longer, and to will and see, Hath reach'd me pow'r to scorn as well as thee: That thou, which proudly tramplest on my grave, Thyself might'st fall, conquer'd my double slave; That thou might'st, sinking in thy triumphs moai And I triumph in my destruction.

Hail, holy cold! chaste temper, hail! the fire Rav'd o'er my purer thoughts I feel t' expire, And I am candied ice; ye pow'rs! if e'er I shall be forc'd unto my sepulchre,

Or violently hurl'd into my urn,

Oh make me choose rather to freeze than burn.

Orpheus to Beasts.

SONG.

SET BY MR. CURTES.

HERE, here, oh here, Euridice,
Here was she slain;

Her soul 'still'd through a vein:

The gods knew less

That time divinity,

Than ev'n, ev'n these

Of brutishness.