COWLEY. SONG. HERE's to thee, Dick-this whining love despise; Pledge me, my friend, and drink till thou be wife. It sparkles brighter far than fhe; 'Tis pure and bright, without deceit, And fuch no woman e'er will be: No, they are all sophisticate. Follies they have so numberless in store, That only he who loves them can have more. Neither their fighs nor tears are true, Nothing like to ours at all: But fighs and tears have sexes too. Here's to thee again; thy senseless forrows drown'd, Let the glass walk till all thy griefs go round; Again! till these two lights be four; No error here can dangerous prove, Thy paffion, man, deceiv'd thee more; None double fee like men in love. THE SPRING. THOUGH you be absent here, I needs must say Nay, the birds' rural music too Is as melodious and as free As if they fung to pleasure you. I faw a rofe-bud ope this morn-I swear, I THE REQUEST. ASK not one in whom all beauties grow- She cannot feem deform'd to me; And I would have her feem to others fo. I fhall not fee with others' own. eyes-scarce with But do not touch my heart, and so be gone: Strike deep thy burning arrows in: As great in love as in religion. Come arm'd with flames, for I would prove my "Tis very true. I thought you once as fair As woman in th' idea are: Whatever here feems beauteous, feem'd to me But then, methinks, there fomething fhone within But fince I knew thy falfehood, and thy pride, A very Moor, methinks, plac'd near to thee, Nay, when the world but knows how false you are, you fair. THE CHANGE, Love in her funny eyes does basking play, THE SOUL. Ir mine eyes do e'er declare They 've seen a fecond thing that's fair, After thy kifs, with ought that's sweet; my bufied touch allow If Ought to be smooth, or soft, but thou; If, what seasonable springs Or the eastern fummer brings, Do my smell perfuade at all; If I ever anger know, Till fome wrong be done to you; Without thy image ftamp'd on it; Or any fear, till I begin To find that you 're concern'd therein; If a joy e'er come to me, That taftes of any thing but thee; If any forrow touch my mind Whilft you are well and not unkind; If I a minute's space debate, Whether I fhall curfe or hate The things beneath thy hatred fall, Though all the world, myself and all; By any force or any art, Be brought to move one step from thee, THE WISH. WELL, then; I now do plainly fee And they, methinks, deferve my pity, Who for it can endure the stings, Ah! yet, ere I descend to the grave, May I a small house and a large garden have; And a few friends, and many books, both true, Both wife, and both delightful too! |