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The blushing apricot, and woolly peach

Hang on thy walls, that every child may reach. And though thy walls be of the countrey stone,

They're rear'd with no mans ruine, no mans grone,
There's none that dwell about them, wish them downe;
But all come in, the farmer and the clowne,
And no one empty-handed, to salute

Thy lord and lady, though they have no sute.
Some bring a capon, some a rurall cake,

Some nuts, some apples; some that thinke they make The better cheeses, bring 'hem; or else send

By their ripe daughters, whom they would commend
This
way to husbands; and whose baskets beare
An embleme of themselves, in plum or peare.
But what can this (more then expresse their love)
Adde to thy free provisions, farre above

The neede of such? whose liberall boord doth flow,
With all that hospitalitie doth know!

Where comes no guest, but is allow'd to eate,

Without his feare, and of thy lords owne meate: Where the same beere, and bread, and selfe-same wine, That is his Lordships, shall be also mine.

And I not faine to sit (as some, this day,

At great mens tables) and yet dine away.

Here no man tells my cups; nor, standing by,
A waiter doth my gluttony envy:

But gives me what I call, and lets me eate,

He knowes, below, he shall finde plentie of meate, Thy tables hoord not up for the next day,

Nor, when I take my lodging, need I pray

For fire, or lights, or livorie: all is there;

As if thou, then, wert mine, or I raign'd here: There's nothing I can wish, for which I stay.

That found King James, when, hunting late this way, With his brave sonne, the prince, they saw thy fires Shine bright on every harth as the desires

Of thy Penates had beene set on flame,

To entertayne them; or the countrey came,

With all their zeale, to warme their welcome here.
What (great, I will not say, but) sodayne cheare
Didst thou, then, make 'hem! and what praise was heap'd
On thy good lady, then! who, therein, reap'd

The just reward of her high huswifery;

To have her linnen, plate, and all things nigh,

T

When shee was farre: and not a roome, but drest
As if it had expected such a guest!

These, Penshurst, are thy praise, and yet not all.
Thy lady's noble, fruitfull, chaste withall.
His children thy great lord may call his owne:
A fortune, in this age, but rarely knowne.
They are, and have been taught religion: thence
Their gentler spirits have suck'd innocence.
Each morne and even they are taught to pray,
With the whole household, and may, every day,
Reade, in their vertuous parents noble parts,
The mysteries of manners, armes, and arts.
Now, Penshurst, they that will proportion thee
With other edifices, when they see

Those proud, ambitious heaps, and nothing else,
May say, their lords have built, but thy lord dwells.

THE SWEET NEGLECT.

FROM THE SILENT WOMAN.

STILL to be neat, still to be drest,
As you were going to a feast;
Still to be pou'dred, still perfum'd:
Lady, it is to be presum'd,

Though arts hid causes are not found,
All is not sweet, all is not sound.

Give me a looke, give me a face,
That makes simplicitie a grace;
Robes loosely flowing, haire as free:
Such sweet neglect more taketh me,
Then all th' adulteries of art:

They strike mine eyes, but not my

heart.

ECHO ON NARCISSUS.

FROM CYNTHIA'S REVELLS.

SLOW, slow, fresh fount, keepe time with my salt teares; Yet slower, yet, ô faintly gentle springs:

List to the heavy part the musique beares,

Woe weepes out her division, when shee sings.

Droupe hearbs, and flowres;
Fall griefe in showres;
Our beauties are not ours:
O, I could still

(Like melting snow upon some craggie hill,)
Drop, drop, drop, drop,

Since Natures pride is, now, a wither'd daffodill.

TO CELIA.

DRINKE to me, onely with thine eyes,

And I will pledge with mine;

Or leave a kisse but in the cup,

And Ile not looke for wine.

The thirst, that from the soule doth rise,
Doth aske a drinke divine:

But might I of Jove's nectar sup,
I would not change for thine.

I sent thee, late, a rosie wreath,
Not so much honoring thee,
As giving it a hope that there
It could not withered bee.

But thou thereon did'st onely breath,

And sent'st it backe to mee:

Since when it growes, and smells, I sweare,
Not of it selfe, but thee.

HYMNE TO DIANA.

FROM CYNTHIA'S REVELLS.

QUEENE, and huntresse, chaste, and faire,

Now the sunne is laid to sleepe,

Seated, in thy silver chaire,
State in wonted manner keepe:
Hesperus intreats thy light,
Goddesse, excellently bright.

Earth, let not thy envious shade
Dare it selfe to interpose;
Cynthias shining orbe was made

Heaven to cleere, when day did close:

Bless us then with wished sight,
Goddesse, excellently bright.

Lay thy bow of pearle apart,
And thy cristall-shining quiver;
Give unto the flying hart

Space to breathe, how short soever:
Thou that mak'st a day of night,
Goddesse, excellently bright.

SONG.

FROM THE POETASTER.

IF I freely may discover,

What would please me in my lover:
I would have her faire, and wittie,
Savouring more of court, then cittie;
A little proud, but full of pittie:
Light, and humorous in her toying,
Oft building hopes, and soone destroying,
Long, but sweet in the enjoying,
Neither too easie, nor too hard:
All extremes I would have bar'd.

Shee should be allowed her passions,
So they were but us'd as fashions;

Sometimes froward, and then frowning,
Sometimes sickish, and then swowning,
Every fit, with change, still crowning.
Purely jealous, I would have her,

Then onely constant when I crave her
'Tis a vertue should not save her.
Thus, nor her delicates would cloy me,
Neither her peevishnesse annoy me.

SONG.

FROM THE FOXE.

COME, my Celia, let us prove,
While we can, the sports of love ;
Time will not be ours for ever,
He, at length, our good will sever;

Spend not then his gifts in vaine,
Sunnes, that set, may rise againe:
But if, once, we lose this light,
"Tis with us perpetuall night.
Why should wee deferre our joyes?
Fame, and rumor are but toies;
Cannot we delude the eyes
Of a few poore houshold-spies?
Or his easier eares beguile,
Thus remooved, by our wile?
'Tis no sinne, loves fruits to steale

But the sweet thefts to reveale :

To be taken, to be seene,

These have crimes accounted beene.

EPITAPH ON ELIZABETH L. H.

WOULDS'T thou heare what man can say
In a little? Reader, stay.
Under-neath this stone doth lye
As much beautie as could dye:
Which in life did harbour give
To more vertue then doth live.
If, at all, shee had a fault,
Leave it buryed in this vault.
One name was Elizabeth,

Th' other let it sleepe with death:
Fitter, where it dyed, to tell,
Then that it liv'd at all.

Farewell.

TO FRANCIS BEAUMONT.

How I doe love thee, Beaumont, and thy muse,
That unto me dost such religion use!
How I doe feare my selfe, that am not worth

The least indulgent thought thy pen drops forth!
At once thou mak'st me happie, and unmak'st;
And giving largely to me, more thou tak'st.
What fate is mine, that so it selfe bereaves?
What art is thine, that so thy friend deceives?
When even there, where most thou praysest mee,
For writing better, I must envie thee.

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