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FINE young Folly! though you were
Y' are not worth the serious part!
When I sigh, and kiss your hand;
Swear, the sun ne'er shot such fires: All is but a handsome lie!
When I eye your curl, or lace,
Therefore, Madam, wear no cloud!
Yet though truth hath this confest ;
And protest an amorous flame; You will swear I, in earnest am! Bedlam! This is pretty sport!
WRITTEN AT THE TIME OF THE EXECUTION OF
THOMAS WENTWORTH, EARL OF STRAFFORD;
AND IN HIS NAME.
Go, empty joys,
With all your noise;
And leave me here alone,
Go, and insnare,
With your false ware,
Some other easy wight;
And cheat him, with your flattering light!
Of Honours, Favour, Wealth, and Power!
Fill his big mind
Of insolent applause!
Let him not fear all-curbing Laws!
But dream of something like a crown;
Let him appear,
Like CYNTHIA in her pride;
Such, for their number and their light, As may, at last, o'erwhelm him quite; And blend us both in one dead night.
Welcome, sad Night;
Your mourning best agrees
Whose too much sunshine blinds his eyes!
Was he too bold,
That needs would hold,
With curbing reins, the Day; And make SOL's fiery steeds obey? Then, sure, as rash was I! Who, with ambitious wings, did fly In CHARLES his Wain too loftily!
I fall! I fall!
Whom shall I call?
Alas, can he be heard,
Who now is neither loved, nor feared?
You, who were wont to kiss the ground Where'er my honoured steps were found, Come, catch me at my last rebound!
How each admires
Heaven's twinkling fires;
Now, 'tis too late
Those lights whose pallidness Argues no inward guiltiness.
Their course one way is bent!
The reason is, there's no dissent
In Heaven's High Court of Parliament!
London. Printed 1641.