CHOR. CHOR. CHOR. CHOR. SONG. BY VENUS AND THE GRACES. Come, lovely boy, unto my court, But keepe away the honey and the sport. Come unto me, And with variety Thou shalt be fed, which nature loves and I. There is no musique in a voice That is but one and still the same. Inconstancy is but a name To fright poore lovers from a better choice. Orpheus that on Euridice Spent all his love, on others scorne, Come then to me→ And sigh no more for one love lost, Come then to me From the same. F 2 SONG. Сно. CHо. Сно. SONG. What need we use many beseeches, Or trouble our brain with long speeches; If we love, tis enough, Hang poetical stuff, As the rule of honesty teaches. If we love, &c. Why should we stand whining like fools, If they love, we'll repayt, If not, let em sayt, What need they the help of the schools. But they must be won by romances, A third do's delight In a song, yet at night You must crack a string which she fancies. SONG. Fond Love, no more Will I adore Thy feigned Deity. Go throw thy darts At simple hearts, And prove thy victory. Whilst I do keep My harmless sheep, Love hath no power on me. Tis idle soules Which he controules, The busie man is free. From Loves Labyrinth, or the Royal Shep-. herdess, by Tho. Forde Philothal. 1660. SONG. Thine eyes to me like sunnes appeare, Or else a day of night: But truely I do think they are But eyes and neither sunne nor starre. Thy brow is as the milky way, E S But But to speake truely, I doe vowe, They are but womans lips and browe, Thy cheeke it is a mingled bath But here theres no man power hath To gather loves fresh posies. Thy nose a promontory faire, But to the cleerer judgment, those For foure lines in passion I can dye, And dabble too in poetry, Whilst love possest the wise. That know love best, get him in prose. From the Variety. A Comedy. 1649. SONG. Not hee that knows how to acquire, But to enjoy, is blest; In motion, but in rest. The & The Gods passe man in blisse, because They toile not for more height, But can enjoy, and in their own Then, princes, do not toile nor care, Enjoy what you possesse, Which whilest you do, you equallize The gods in happinesse. From the Tragedie of Cleopatra, by Thomas May. 1654. Come will you buy? for I have heere But I, Come will you buy? Have medicines for that malady. Is there a lady in this place, Would not bee maskt, but for her face? O doe not blush, for heere is that Will make your pale cheeks plumpe and fat. Should I thus crye, And none a scruple of me buye? E 4 Come |