Canst thou not tell me of a gentle pair
That likest thy Narcissus are?
O, if thou have

Hid them in some flowery cave,

Tell me but where,

Sweet queen of parley, daughter of the sphere So may'st thou be translated to the skies, And give resounding grace to all Heaven's harmonies !

Comus.

SABRINA FAIR

SABRINA fair,

Listen where thou art sitting

Under the glassy, cool, translucent wave,
In twisted braids of lilies knitting
The loose train of thy amber-dropping hair,
Listen for dear honour's sake,
Goddess of the silver lake,

Listen and save!

Listen, and appear to us,

In name of great Oceanus,

By the earth-shaking Neptune's mace,
And Tethys' grave majestic pace;
By hoary Nereus' wrinkled look,
And the Carpathian wizard's hook;
By scaly Triton's winding shell,
And old soothsaying Glaucus' spell;
By Leucothea's lovely hands,
And her son that rules the strands;
By Thetis' tinsel-slippered feet,
And the songs of Sirens sweet;
By dead Parthenope's dear tomb,
And fair Ligca's goiden comb,

Wherewith she sits on diamond rocks

Sleeking her soft alluring locks;

By all the Nymphs that nightly dance
Upon thy streams with wily glance;
Rise, rise, and heave thy rosy head
From thy coral-paven bed,

And bridle in thy headlong wave,

Till thou our summons answered have.

Listen and save!

SABRINA rises, attended by Water-nymphs, and sings

By the rushy-fringed bank,

Where grows the willow and the osier dank,

My sliding chariot stays,

Thick set with agate, and the azurn sheen
Of turkis blue, and emerald green,

That in the channel strays:
Whilst from off the waters fleet
Thus I set my printless feet
O'er the cowslip's velvet head,
That bends not as I tread.
Gentle swain, at thy request
I am here!

Comus.

THE SPIRIT'S FAREWELL

To the ocean now I fly,

And those happy climes that lie
Where Day never shuts his eye,
Up in the broad fields of the sky.
There I suck the liquid air,

All amidst the gardens fair

Of Hesperus, and his daughters three
That sing about the golden tree.
Along the crispèd shades and bowers
Revels the spruce and jocund Spring;
The Graces and the rosy-bosomed Hours
Thither all their bounties bring.

There eternal Summer dwells,
And west winds with musky wing
About the cedarn alleys fling
Nard and cassia's balmy smells.
Iris there with humid bow

Waters the odorous banks, that blow
Flowers of more mingled hue
Than her purfled scarf can show,
And drenches with Elysian dew
(List, mortals, if your ears be true)
Beds of hyacinth and roses,
Where young Adonis oft reposes,
Waxing well of his deep wound,
In slumber soft, and on the ground
Sadly sits the Assyrian queen.

But far above, in spangled sheen,
Celestial Cupid, her famed son, advanced
Holds his dear Psyche, sweet entranced
After her wandering labours long,
Till free consent the Gods among
Make her his eternal bride,
And from her fair unspotted side
Two blissful twins are to be born,
Youth and Joy; so Jove hath sworn.
But now my task is smoothly done:
I can fly, or I can run

Quickly to the green earth's end,

Where the bowed welkin slow doth bend,
And from thence can soar as soon
To the corners of the moon.
Mortals, that would follow me,
Love Virtue; she alone is free.
She can teach ye how to climb
Higher than the sphery chime ;
Or, if Virtue feeble were,

Heaven itself would stoop to her.

Comus.

WOMEN PREPARING FOR WAR

LET us live, live! for, being dead,
The pretty spots,

Ribbons and knots,

And the fine French dress for the heal,
No lady wears upon her

In the cold, cold bed of honour.

Beat down our grottos, and hew down our bowers
Dig up our arbours, and root up our flowers;
Our gardens are bulwarks, and bastions become;
Then hang up our lute, we must sing to the drum.

Our patches and our curls,
So exact in each station,
Our powders and our purls,

Are now out of fashion.

Hence with our needles, and give us your spades; We, that were ladies, grow coarse as our maids. Our coaches have driven us to balls at the court, We now must drive barrows to earth up the fort. The Siege of Rhodes.

JEALOUSY

THIS cursed Jealousy, what is't?
'Tis Love that has lost itself in a mist;
'Tis Love being frighted out of his wits;
'Tis Love that has a fever got;

Love that is violently hot,

But troubled with cold and trembling fits.

'Tis yet a more unnatural evil :

'Tis the God of Love, 'tis the God of Love, possessed

with a devil.

'Tis rich corrupted wine of love, Which sharpest vinegar does prove;

From all the sweet flowers which might honey make, It does a deadly poison bring:

Strange serpent which itself doth sting!

It never can sleep, and dreams still awake;
It stuffs up the marriage-bed with thorns.

It gores itself, it gores itself, with imagined horns.

The Siege of Rhodes.

LOVE'S LOTTERY

RUN to Love's lottery! Run, Maids, and rejoice : When, drawing your chance, you meet your own

choice;

And boast that your luck you help with design,
By praying cross-legged to old Bishop Valentine.
Hark, hark! a prize is drawn, and trumpets sound!
Tan, ta, ra, ra, ra !
Tan, ta, ra, ra, ra l

Hark, Maids! more lots are drawn! prizes abound. Dub! dub-a, dub-a-dub! the drum now beats! And, dub-a, dub-a-dub, echo repeats ;