Upon a mushroom's head,
Our table we do spread.

A corn of rye, or wheat,
Is manchet; which we eat.
Pearly drops of dew we drink
In acorn cups, filled to the brink.

The brains of nightingales,
The unctious dew of snails,
Between two nutshells stewed,
Is meat that 's easily chewed;
And the beards of little mice
Do make a feast of wondrous price!

On tops of dewy grass,

So nimbly do we pass,

The young and tender stalk

Ne'er bends when we do walk;

Yet, in the morning, may be seen

Where we, the night before, have been.

The grasshopper and the fly

Serve for our Minstrelsy.

Grace said; we dance a while,

And so the time beguile :

And when the moon doth hide her head; The glowworm lights us home to bed.

OF WOMEN.

I WONDER, Why, by foul-mouthed men, Women so slandered be!

Since it so easily doth appear
Th' are better far than we!

Why are the Graces, every one,
Pictured as Women be?

If not to show, that they in grace
Do more excel than we!

Why are the Liberal Sciences
Pictured as Women be?

But t' shew, if they would study them,
They'd more excel than we!

And yet the Senses, every one,
As Men should pictured be;
To make it known, that Women are
Less sensual than we!

Why are the Virtues, every one,
Pictured as Women be?

If not to shew, that they in them
Do more excel than we!

Since Women are so full of worth;
Let them all praisèd be!
For commendations they deserve
In ampler wise than we!

TO MASTER HUMPHREY MOSLEY, AND MASTER HUMPHREY ROBINSON.

IN the large book of Plays, you, late, did print In BEAUMONT'S and in FLETCHER'S name; why in 't Did you not justice? give to each, his due?

For BEAUMONT, of those many, writ in few; And MASSINGER, in other few: the main Being sole issues of sweet FLETCHER'S brain. 'But how came I,' you ask, 'so much to know?' FLETCHER'S chief bosom friend informed me so. I' th' next impression therefore, justice do! And print their old ones in one volume too! For BEAUMONT's Works, and FLETCHER'S, should come forth

With all the right belonging to their worth.

TO PLAUTIA.

AWAY, fond thing! Tempt me no more!
I'll not be won, with all thy store!
I can behold thy golden hair;
And for the owner nothing care!
Thy starry eyes can look upon;

And be mine own, when I have done!
Thy cherry, ruby lips can kiss ;
And for fruition never wish!
Can view the garden of thy cheeks;
And slight the roses there, as leeks!
Can hear thee sing, with all thine art;
Without enthralling of my heart!
My liberty thou canst not wrong,
With all the magic of thy tongue!
Thy warm snow-breasts, and I can see;
And neither sigh, nor wish for thee!
Behold thy feet, which we do bless
For bearing so much happiness;
Yet they, at all should not destroy
My strong preservèd liberty!...

For thou art false! and wilt be so!
I, else, no other Fair would woo.
Away, therefore! Tempt me no more!
I'll not be won, with all thy store!