Upon a Braid of Hair in a Heart sent by Mrs. E. H.
In this small Character is sent
My Loves eternal Monument.
Whil'st we shall live, know, this chain'd Heart
Is our affections counter-part.
And if we never meet, think I
Bequeath'd it as my Legacy.
O all ye Nations record,
The Praises of the Lord;
Ye people through the Universe,
Your Makers praise rehearse.
For He to us great kindness shewes,
And Mercies large bestowes.
His constant Truth no time decaies:
The Lord for ever praise.
An Epitaph on Niobe turned to Stone
This Pile thou seest built out of Flesh, not Stone,
Contains no shroud within, nor mouldring bone:
This bloodless Trunk is destitute of Tombe
Which may the Soul-fled Mansion enwombe.
This seeming Sepulchre (to tell the troth)
Is neither Tomb nor Body, and yet both.
To A. R. vpon the same
Not that I would instruct or tutor you
What is a Wifes behest, or Husbands due,
Give I this Widdow-Wife. Your early date
Of knowledge makes such Precepts slow and late.
This book is but your glass, where you shall see
What your self are, what other Wives should bee.
Upon a Table-Book presented to a Lady
VVhen your fair hand receives this little book
You must not there for prose or verses look.
Those empty regions which within you see,
May by your self planted and peopled be:
And though we scarce allow your sex to prove
Writers (unless the Argument be Love);
Yet without crime or envy you have roome
Here, both the Scribe and Author to become.
To the same Lady upon Mr. Burtons Melancholy
If in this Glass of Humours you do find
The Passions or diseases of your mind,
Here without pain, you safely may endure,
Though not to suffer, yet to read your cure.
But if you nothing meet you can apply,
Then ere you need, you have a remedy.
And I do wish you never may have cause
To be adjudg'd by these fantastick Laws;
But that this books example may be known,
By others Melancholy, not your own.
SONNET. Dry those fair, those chrystal eyes
Dry those fair, those chrystal eyes
Which like growing fountains rise
To drown their banks. Griefs sullen brooks
Would better flow in furrow'd looks.
Thy lovely face was never meant
To be the shoar of discontent.
Then clear those watrish starres again
Which else portend a lasting rain;
Lest the clouds which settle there
Prolong my Winter all the Year:
And the example others make
In love with sorrow for thy sake.
To a Friend upon Overbury's wife given to her
I know no fitter subject for your view
Then this, a meditation ripe for you,
As you for it. Which when you read you'l see
What kind of wife your self will one day bee:
Which happy day be neer you, and may this
Remain with you as earnest of my wish;
When you so far love any, that you dare
Venture your whole affection on his care,
May he for whom you change your Virgin-life
Prove good to you, and perfect as this Wife.
SONNET. VVere thy heart soft as thou art faire
VVere thy heart soft as thou art faire,
Thou wer't a wonder past compare:
But frozen Love and fierce disdain
By their extremes thy graces stain.
Cold coyness quenches the still fires
Which glow in Lovers warm desires;
And scorn, like the quick Lightnings blaze,
Darts death against affections gaze.
O Heavens, what prodigy is this
When Love in Beauty buried is!
Or that dead pity thus should be
Tomb'd in a living cruelty.
Like to the falling of a star,
Or as the flights of eagles are,
Or like the fresh spring's gaudy hue,
Or silver drops of morning dew,
Or like a wind that chafes the flood,
Or bubbles which on water stood:
Even such is man, whose borrowed light
Is straight called in, and paid to night.
The wind blows out, the bubble dies;
The spring entombed in autumn lies;
The dew dries up, the star is shot;
The flight is past, and man forgot.