The maid (and thereby hangs a tale), Could ever yet produce: No grape, that's kindly ripe, could be Her finger was so small, the ring, Her feet beneath her petticoat, But O she dances such a way! Is half so fine a sight. Her cheeks so rare a white was on, (Who sees them is undone), For streaks of red were mingled there, The side that's next the sun. Her lips were red, and one was thin, (Some bee had stung it newly); But, Dick, her eyes so guard her face: 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. Just in the nick the cook knocked thrice, And all the waiters in a trice His summons did obey; Each serving-man, with dish in hand, Marched boldly up, like our trained band, Presented, and away. When all the meat was on the table, What man of knife or teeth was able And this the very reason was, The business of the kitchen's great, Passion o' me, how I run on! There's that that would be thought upon (I trow) besides the bride. Now hats fly off, and youths carouse; On the sudden up they rise and dance; Thus several ways the time did pass, TRUTH IN LOVE. Of thee, kind boy, I ask no red and white, No odd becoming graces, Black eyes, or little know-not-whats in faces; I ask no more, 'Tis love in love that makes the sport. There's no such thing as that we beauty call, For though some long ago Liked certain colours mingled so and so, To black and blue, That fancy doth it beauty make. Tis not the meat, but 'tis the appetite And if I like one dish More than another, that a pheasant is; We up be wound, No matter by what hand or trick. VOL. II THE DANCE. Love, Reason, Hate, did once bespeak And Hate consorts with Pride; so dance they N They break, and Love would Reason meet, Fancy looks for Pride, and thither The rest do break again, and Pride ORSAMES' SONG IN 'AGLAURA.' Why so pale and wan, fond lover? Will, when looking well can't move her, Prithee, why so pale? Why so dull and mute, young sinner? Will, when speaking well can't win her, Prithee, why so mute? Quit, quit, for shame, this will not move; This cannot take her. If of herself she will not love, Nothing can make her The devil take her! SONG. I prithee send me back my heart, For if from yours you will not part, Yet now I think on 't, let it iie, For th' hast a thief in either eye Why should two hearts in one breast lie But love is such a mystery, I cannot find it out: For when I think I'm best resolv'd, I then am in most doubt. Then farewell care, and farewell woe, I will no longer pine: For I'll believe I have her heart, THE LUTE SONG IN THE SAD ONE.' Hast thou seen the down in the air, When wanton blasts have tossed it? Or the ship on the sea, When ruder winds have crossed it? Or hast viewed the peacock in his pride, When he courts for his lechery? O, so fickle, O, so vain, O, so false, o false is she? |