Give me scorching heat, thy heat dry sun, That to this pair I may drink off an oceán. Yet leave my grateful thirst unquench'd, undone; Or a full bowl of heav'nly wine, In which dissolved stars should shine To the couple! to the couple! th'are divine. SIR THOMAS WORTLEY'S SONNET. No more Thou litttle winged archer, now no more Thou may'st pretend within my breast to bide No more, Since cruel Death of dearest Lindamore Hath me deprived, I bid adieu to love, and all the world beside. Go, go; Lay by thy quiver and unbend thy bow Poor silly foe, Thou spend'st thy shafts but at my breast in vain, Since death My heart hath with a fatal icy dart Already slain, Thou caust not ever hope to warm her wound, Or wound it o'er again. SIR THOMAS WORTLEY'S SONNET AGAIN, ANSWERED. Thou witty, cruel, wanton, now again, Through ev'ry vein, Hurl all your lightning, and strike ev'ry dart, Again, Before I feel this pleasing, pleasing pain, I have no heart, Nor can I live, but sweetly murder'd with So dear, so dear a smart. Then fly, And kindle all your torches at her eye, To make me die Her martyr, and put on my robe of flame: So I, Advanced on my blazing wings on high, In death became Enthron'd a star, and ornament unto Her glorious name. A guiltless Lady imprisoned; after penanced. SONG. SET BY MR. WILLIAM LAWES. HARK, fair one, how whate'er here is But joy, t'enjoy thee, though in grief. See! that which chains you, you chain here; How much thy jailor's keeper art, He binds your hands, but you his heart. The gyves to rase so smooth a skin, And play about thy wanton wrist, And as thy bare feet bless the way The merry torch burns with desire The sheet tied ever to thy waist, UPON THE CURTAIN OF LUCASTA'S PICTURE, IT WAS THUS WROUGHT. OH stay that covetous hand-first turn all eye, That you will swear her body by this law, TO HIS DEAR BROTHER COLONEL F. L. IMMODERATELY MOURNING MY BROTHER'S UNTIMELY IF tears could wash the ill away, One drop another calls, which still Too fruitful of herself is anguish; Coward Fate, degenerate man Then from thy firm self never swerve; Are ne'er wip'd out with a wet eye. But this way you may gain the field, An Elegy. ON THE DEATH OF MRS. CASSANDRA COTTON, ONLY HITHER with hallowed steps as is the ground |