Part 13

Tell my lovely foe that I Have no more such spies to send, But one or two that I intend, Some few minutes ere I die, To her white bosom to commend.

Then whisper by that holy spring, Where for her sake I would have died, Whilst those water-nymphs did bring Flowers to cure what she had tried; And of my faith and love did sing.

That if my Amoret, if she In after-times would have it read, How her beauty murder'd me, With all my heart I will agree, If she'll but love me, being dead.

TO HIS FRIEND BEING IN LOVE.

Ask, lover, ere thou diest; let one poor breath Steal from thy lips, to tell her of thy death; Doating idolater! can silence bring Thy saint propitious? or will Cupid fling One arrow for thy paleness? leave to try This silent courtship of a sickly eye. Witty to tyranny, she too well knows This but the incense of thy private vows, That breaks forth at thine eyes, and doth betray The sacrifice thy wounded heart would pay; Ask her, fool, ask her; if words cannot move, The language of thy tears may make her love. Flow nimbly from me then; and when you fall On her breast's warmer snow, O may you all, By some strange fate fix'd there, distinctly lie, The much lov'd volume of my tragedy. Where, if you win her not, may this be read, The cold that freez'd you so, did strike me dead.

SONG.

Amyntas go, thou art undone, Thy faithful heart is cross'd by fate; That love is better not begun, Where love is come to love too late.

Had she professèd hidden fires, Or show'd one knot that tied her heart, I could have quench'd my first desires, And we had only met to part.

But, tyrant, thus to murder men, And shed a lover's harmless blood, And burn him in those flames again, Which he at first might have withstood.

Yet, who that saw fair Chloris weep Such sacred dew, with such pure grace; Durst think them feignèd tears, or seek For treason in an angel's face.

This is her art, though this be true, Men's joys are kill'd with griefs and fears, Yet she, like flowers oppress'd with dew, Doth thrive and flourish in her tears.

This, cruel, thou hast done, and thus That face hath many servants slain, Though th' end be not to ruin us, But to seek glory by our pain.

FOOTNOTES:

MS. Whose pure offering comes too late.

MS. profess'd her.

MS. the.

MS. such a.

MS. by.

MS. Your aime is sure to ruine us. Seeking your glory by our paine

TO AMORET.

Walking in a Starry Evening.

If, Amoret, that glorious eye, In the first birth of light, And death of Night, Had with those elder fires you spy Scatter'd so high, Receivèd form and sight;

We might suspect in the vast ring, Amidst these golden glories, And fiery stories; Whether the sun had been the king And guide of day, Or your brighter eye should sway.

But, Amoret, such is my fate, That if thy face a star Had shin'd from far, I am persuaded in that state, 'Twixt thee and me, Of some predestin'd sympathy.

For sure such two conspiring minds, Which no accident, or sight, Did thus unite; Whom no distance can confine, Start, or decline, One for another were design'd.

FOOTNOTES:

MS.

MS. We may suspect in the vast ring, Which rolls those fiery spheres Thro' years and years.