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, Thy lord and lady, though they have no sute. 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 The neede of such? whose liberall boord doth flow, 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, 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. 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 These, Penshurst, are thy praise, and yet not all. Those proud, ambitious heaps, and nothing else, THE SWEET NEGLECT. FROM THE SILENT WOMAN. STILL to be neat, still to be drest, Though arts hid causes are not found, Give me a looke, give me a face, 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; (Like melting snow upon some craggie hill,) 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, But might I of Jove's nectar sup, I sent thee, late, a rosie wreath, But thou thereon did'st onely breath, And sent'st it backe to mee: Since when it growes, and smells, I sweare, 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, Earth, let not thy envious shade Heaven to cleere, when day did close: Bless us then with wished sight, Lay thy bow of pearle apart, Space to breathe, how short soever: SONG. FROM THE POETASTER. IF I freely may discover, What would please me in my lover: Shee should be allowed her passions, Sometimes froward, and then frowning, Then onely constant when I crave her SONG. FROM THE FOXE. COME, my Celia, let us prove, Spend not then his gifts in vaine, 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 Th' other let it sleepe with death: Farewell. TO FRANCIS BEAUMONT. How I doe love thee, Beaumont, and thy muse, The least indulgent thought thy pen drops forth! |