FINE young Folly! though you were
That fair Beauty I did swear;
Yet you ne'er could reach my heart!
For we, Courtiers, learn at school,
Only with your Sex to fool!

Y' are not worth the serious part!

When I sigh, and kiss your hand;
Cross my arms, and wond'ring stand,
Holding parley with your eye;
Then dilate on my desires,

Swear, the sun ne'er shot such fires: All is but a handsome lie!

When I eye your curl, or lace,
Gentle Soul! you think your face
Straight some murder doth commit!
And your virtue doth begin
To grow scrupulous of my sin :
When I talk, to show my wit!

Therefore, Madam, wear no cloud!
Nor, to check my love, grow proud!
For, in sooth, I much do doubt
'Tis the powder in your hair,
Not your breath, perfumes the air!
And your clothes, that set you out!

Yet though truth hath this confest ;
And I vow, I love in jest!
When I next begin to court,

And protest an amorous flame; You will swear I, in earnest am! Bedlam! This is pretty sport!

VERSES

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,
In sweet sad silence, to bemoan
Your vain and fleet delight!
Whose danger, none can see aright;
Whilst your false splendour dims his sight.

Go, and insnare,

With your false ware,

Some other easy wight;

And cheat him, with your flattering light!
Rain on his head, a shower

Of Honours, Favour, Wealth, and Power!
Then, snatch it from him in an hour!

Fill his big mind
With gallant wind

Of insolent applause!

Let him not fear all-curbing Laws!
Nor King! nor people's frown!

But dream of something like a crown;
Then, climbing towards it, tumble down!

Let him appear,
In his bright Sphere,

Like CYNTHIA in her pride;
With star-like troops on every side!

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;
Grief's sole delight!

Your mourning best agrees
With Honour's funeral obsequies!
In THETIS' lap he lies,
Mantled with soft securities;

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;
When, from their glorious seat,
Their influence gives light and heat!
But O, how few there are
(Though danger, from that act be far!)
Will stoop, and catch a falling star!

Now, 'tis too late

To imitate

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.