By this I guess,
Of happiness,

Who has a little measure;

He must, of right,

To th' utmost mite,

Make payment for his pleasure!

THE CHEAT OF CUPID;

OR, THE UNGENTLE GUEST.

ONE silent night, of late,

When every creature rested,

Came one unto my gate,

And, knocking, me molested.

'Who's that,' said I, 'beats there; And troubles thus the sleepy?' 'Cast off,' said he, 'all fear!

And let not locks thus keep ye!

'For I a Boy am, who

By moonless nights have swervèd; And all with showers wet through, And e'en with cold half starvèd.'

I pitiful arose,

And soon a taper lighted, And did myself disclose

Unto the lad benighted.

I saw he had a bow;

And wings too, which did shiver; And looking down below,

I spied he had a quiver.

I to my chimney's shine

Brought him, as love professes; And chafed his hands with mine, And dried his dropping tresses.

But when he felt him warmed,
'Let's try this bow of ours,
And string, if they be harmed,'
Said he, 'with these late showers!'

Forthwith his bow he bent,

And wedded string and arrow;

And struck me, that it went

€

Quite through my heart and marrow.

Then, laughing loud, he flew

Away; and thus said, flying, 'Adieu, mine' host! adieu!

I'll leave thy heart a dying!'

HOW ROSES CAME RED. ROSES, at first, were white, Till they could not agree, Whether my SAPPHO's breast, Or they, more white should be.

But being vanquished quite,

A blush their cheeks bespread! Since which (believe the rest!) The Roses first came red. [See also page 128.]

TO THE LARK.

GOOD speed! For I, this day,
Betimes my Matins say;

Because I do

Begin to woo.

Sweet singing Lark,
Be thou the Clerk!
And know thy when
To say, 'Amen!'
And if I prove
Blest in my love;
Then thou shalt be
High Priest to me!
At my return,

To incense burn;

And so to solemnize

Love's, and my, sacrifice.

TO THE WESTERN WIND.

SWEET Western Wind! whose luck it is
(Made rival with the air!)

To give PERENNA's lip a kiss,
And fan her wanton hair;

Bring me but one! I'll promise thee,
Instead of common showers,
Thy wings shall be embalmed by me;
And all beset with flowers!

A MEDITATION FOR HIS MISTRESS.

You are a Tulip, seen to-day;

But, Dearest! of so short a stay,

That where you grew, scarce man can say

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 lost, ere that chaste flesh and blood
Can show where you, or grew, or stood!

You are a full-spread fair-set Vine,
And can with tendrils love intwine;
Yet dried, ere you distil your wine!

You are like Balm inclosed well
In amber, or some crystal shell;
Yet lost, ere you transfuse your smell!

You are a dainty Violet;

Yet withered, ere you can be set
Within the Virgin's coronet!

You are the Queen, all flowers among; But die, you must, fair Maid, ere long! As he, the Maker of this Song.