My Sences want their outward motion

Which now within

Reason doth win,

Redoubled by her secret notion:

Like rich men that take pleasure

In hidinge more then handling treasure.

By absence this good means I gaine

That I can catch her

Where none can watch her

In some close corner of my braine:

There I embrace and kiss her,

And so enjoye her, and so misse her.

John Hoskins.

On his Mistris, the Queen of Bohemia.

Y That poorly satisfie our Bies

Ou meaner Beauties of the Night,

More by your number, then your light,
You Common-people of the Skies;

What are you when the Sun shall rise?

You Curious Chanters of the Wood,
That warble forth Dame Natures layes,
Thinking your Voyces understood

By your weake accents; what's

your praise
When Philomell her voyce shal raise?

You Violets, that first apeare,
By your pure purpel mantels knowne,
Like the proud Virgins of the yeare,
As if the Spring were all your own;

What are you when the Rose is blowne?

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So, when my Mistris shal be seene
In Form and Beauty of her mind,
By Vertue first, then Choyce a Queen,
Tell me, if she were not design'd
Th' Eclypse and Glory of her kind?

Sir Henry Wotton.

Loves Victory.

Ictorious beauty, though your eyes
Are able to subdue an hoast,

And therefore are unlike to boast
The taking of a little prize,

Do not a single heart dispise.

It came alone, but yet so arm'd

With former love, I durst have sworne That where a privy coat was worne, With characters of beauty charm'd, Thereby it might have scapt unharm❜d.

But neither steele nor stony breast

Are proofe against those lookes of thine,
Nor can a Beauty lesse divine

Of any heart be long possest,
Where thou pretend'st an interest.

Thy Conquest in regard of me

Alasse is small, but in respect
Of her that did my Love protect,
Were it divulged, deserv'd to be
Recorded for a Victory.

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Let others with attention sit,
To listen, and admire her wit,
That is a rock where Ile not split.
Let others dote upon her eyes,
And burn their hearts for sacrifice,
Beauty's a calm where danger lyes.

But Kinde and True have been long tried
A harbour where we may confide,

And safely there at anchor ride.

From change of winds there we are free,
And need not feare Storme's tyrannie,

Nor Pirat, though a Prince he be.

Aurelian Townshend.

ΤΟ

Μ'

Elegy over a Tomb.

Ust I then see, alas! eternal night

Sitting upon those fairest eyes,

And closing all those beams, which once did rise
So radiant and bright,

That light and heat in them to us did prove
Knowledge and Love?

Oh, if you did delight no more to stay
Upon this low and earthly stage,

But rather chose an endless heritage,

Tell us at least, we pray,

Where all the beauties that those ashes ow'd
Are now bestow'd?

Doth the Sun now his light with yours renew ?
Have Waves the curling of your hair?

Did you restore unto the Sky and Air,

The red, and white, and blew?

Have you vouchsafed to flowers since your death
That sweetest breath?

Had not Heav'ns Lights else in their houses slept,
Or to some private life retir'd?

Must not the Sky and Air have else conspir'd,
And in their Regions wept?

Must not each flower else the earth could breed
Have been a weed?

But thus enrich'd may we not yield some cause
Why they themselves lament no more?
That must have changed the course they held before,
And broke their proper Laws,

Had not your beauties giv'n this second birth

To Heaven and Earth?

Tell us, for Oracles must still ascend,

For those that crave them at your tomb:
Tell us, where are those beauties now become,
And what they now intend:

Tell us, alas, that cannot tell our grief,

Or hope relief.

Lord Herbert of Cherbury.

An Ode upon a Question
Question moved, whether
Love should continue for ever?

Having interr'd her Infant-birth,

The watry ground that late did mourn,
Was strew'd with flow'rs for the return
Of the wish'd Bridegroom of the earth.

The well accorded Birds did sing
Their hymns unto the pleasant time,
And in a sweet consorted chime
Did welcom in the chearful Spring.

To which, soft whistles of the Wind,
And warbling murmurs of a Brook,
And vari'd notes of leaves that shook,
An harmony of parts did bind.

While doubling joy unto each other,
All in so rare concent was shown,
No happiness that came alone,
Nor pleasure that was not another.

ΙΟ