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
As heretofore,

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
Doth laugh and sing at thy distress,
Not out of hate to thy relief,

But joy, t'enjoy thee, though in grief.

See! that which chains you, you chain here;
The prison is thy prisoner;

How much thy jailor's keeper art,

He binds your hands, but you his heart.

The gyves to rase so smooth a skin,
Are so unto themselves within,
But blest to kiss so fair an arm;
Haste to be happy with that harm.

And play about thy wanton wrist,
As if in them thou so wert dress'd;
But if too rough, too hard they press,
Oh, they but closely, closely kiss.

And as thy bare feet bless the way
The people do not mock, but pray,
And call'd thee as amaz'd they run
Instead of prostitute, a nun.

The merry torch burns with desire
To kindle the eternal fire,
And lightly dances in thine eyes
To tunes of Epithalamies.

The sheet tied ever to thy waist,
How thankful to be so embrac'd!
And see! thy very, very bonds,
Are bound to thee to bind such hands.

UPON THE CURTAIN OF

LUCASTA'S PICTURE,

IT WAS THUS WROUGHT.

OH stay that covetous hand-first turn all eye,
All depth, and mind; then mystically spy
Her soul's fair picture, her fair soul's, in all-
So truly copied from th' original;

That you will swear her body by this law,
Is but its shadow, as this its,-now draw.

TO HIS DEAR BROTHER

COLONEL F. L.

IMMODERATELY MOURNING MY BROTHER'S UNTIMELY
DEATH AT CARMARTHEN.

IF tears could wash the ill away,
A pearl for each wet bead I'd pay;
But as dew'd corn the fuller grows,
So water'd eyes but swell our woes.

One drop another calls, which still
Grief adding fuel, doth distil;

Too fruitful of herself is anguish;
We need no cherishing to language.

Coward Fate, degenerate man
Like little children uses, when
He whips us first until we weep,
Then 'cause we still a weeping keep.

Then from thy firm self never swerve;
Tears fat the grief that they should starve;
Iron decrees of destiny

Are ne'er wip'd out with a wet eye.

But this way you may gain the field,
Oppose but sorrow and 'twill yield;
One gallant thorough-made resolve
Doth starry influence dissolve.

An Elegy.

ON THE DEATH OF MRS. CASSANDRA COTTON, ONLY
SISTER TO MR. C. COTTON.

HITHER with hallowed steps as is the ground
That must enshrine this saint with looks profound,
And sad aspects, as the dark veils you wear,
Virgins oppress'd draw gently, gently near;