Thyself a holy temple art,

Where love shall teach us both to pray; I'll make an altar of my heart,

And incenfe on thy lips I'll lay.

Thy mouth fhall be my oracle, and then
For beads we'll tell our kiffes o'er again,

Till they, breath'd from our fouls, fhall cry, amen.

ROBERT HERRICK.

Author of a collection of poems published under the title of Hefperides, Octavo, 1648.---The volume contains two little pieces, "the Primrofe" and "the Inquiry," which are printed in Carew's poems.

A MEDITATION FOR HIS MISTRESS.

You are a tulip, feen to-day,

But, dearest, of so short a stay,

That where you grew scarce man can fay.

You are a lovely July-flower,

Yet one rude wind, or ruffling shower,
Will force you hence, and in an hour.

You are a sparkling rose i’th' bud;
Yet loft, ere that chafte flesh and blood
Can fhew where you or grew, or ftood.

You are a dainty violet,

Yet wither'd ere you can be fet

Within the virgin's coronet.

You

are

the queen

all flow'rs among,

But die you muft, fair maid, ere long,
As he, the maker of this fong.

SONNE T.

Am I defpis'd because you say,
And I believe, that I am grey?
Know, lady, you have but your day,
And night will come, and men will swear
Time hath spilt fnow upon your hair.

Then, when in your glafs you feek,
And find no rofe-buds in your cheek;
No, nor the bed to give you fhew,
Where fuch a rare carnation grew,
And fuch a smiling tulip too,

O then too late in close your chamber keeping,

It will be told

That you are old

By those true tears you're weeping.

THE MAD MAID's SONG.

Good-m

o-morrow to the day so fair;

Good-morrow, Sir, to you;

Good-morrow to mine own torn hair,

Bedabbled with the dew.

Good-morrow to this primrose too;
Good-morrow to each maid,

That will with flow'rs the tomb beftrew
Wherein my love is laid.

I'll feek him there! I know, ere this,

The cold, cold earth doth shake him; But I will go, or send a kifs

By you, Sir, to awake him.

Pray, hurt him not; though he be dead He knows well who do love him; And who with green-turfs rear his head, And who do rudely move him.

He's foft and tender-pray, take heedWith bands of cowflips bind him; And bring him home-but 'tis decreed That I fhall never find him.

LLUELLY N.

Author of Men Miracles," and other poems, a small volume, 1656. The Men Miracles are a good fatire on travellers, written in what is now called Hudibraftic verfe.

SONG.

COELIA IN LOVE.

I FELT my heart, and found a flame,
That for relief and fhelter came;
I entertain❜d the treacherous guest,
And gave it welcome to my breast-
Poor Cœlia! whither wilt thou go?
To cool in ftreams, or freeze in fnow?
Or gentle zephyrus intreat

To chill thy flames, and fan thy heat?
Perhaps a taper's fading beams

May die in air, or quench in ftreams;
But love is a mysterious fire,

Nor can in air or ice expire:
Nor will this phoenix be fuppreft

But with the ruin of its neft.