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During these troubles in the court was hid

BALLAD ON A WEDDING. One that Apollo soon miss’d, little Cid;

I tell thee, Dick, where I have been, And having spy'd him, call'd him out of the throng,

Where I the rarest things have seen: And advis'd him in his ear not to write so strong.

Oh things without compare!

Such sights again cannot be found Murrey was summon’d, but 'twas urg'd, that he In any place on English ground, Was chief already of another company.

Be it at wake, or fair. Hales set by himself most gravely did smile

At Charing-Cross, hard by the way

Where we (thou know'st) do sell our hay, To see them about nothing keep such a coil;

There is a house with stairs; Apollo had spy'd him, but knowing his mind

And there did I see coming down Past by, and call’d Falkland, that sate just behind:

Such folks as are not in our town,

Vorty at least, in pairs.
But he was of late so gone with divinity,
That he had almost forgot his poetry,

Amongst the rest, one pest'lent fine, Though, to say the truth, and Apollo did know it, (His beard no bigger though than thine) He might have been both his priest and his poet.

Walk'd on before the rest:

Our landlord looks like nothing to him: At length who but an Alderman did appear,

The king (God bless him) 'twou'd undo him, At which Will Davenant began to swear;

Shou'd he go still so drest.
But wiser Apollo bade him draw nigher,
And, when he was mounted a little higher,

At Course-a-park, without all doubt,
He should have first been taken out

By all the maids i' th' town: He openly declar'd, that the best sign

Though lusty Roger there had been, Of good store of wit's to have good store of coin, Or little George upon the green, And without a syllable more or less said,

Or Vincent of the crown. He put the laurel on the Alderman's head.

But wot you what? the youth was going At this all the wits were in such amaze

To make an end of all his wooing ; That, for a good while, they did nothing but gaze

The parson for him staid: One upon another; not a man in the place

Yet by his leave, for all his haste, But had discontent writ at large in his face.

He did not so much wish all past

(Perchance) as did the maid. Only the small poets cheer'd up again,

The maid-and thereby hangs a tale-
Out of hope, as 'twas thought, of borrowing; For such a maid no Whitson ale
But sure they were out, for he forfeits his crown

Could ever yet produce:
When he lends to any poet about the town.

No grape that's kindly ripe, could be
So round, so plump, so soft as she,

Nor half so full of juice.

Why so pale and wan, fond lover:

Pr’ythee why so pale?
Will, when looking well can't move her,

Looking ill prevail ?
Pr'ythee why so pale?

Her finger was so small, the ring
Wou'd not stay on which they did bring,

It was too wide a peck:
And to say truth (for out it must)
It look'd like the great collar (just)

About our young colt's neck.
Her feet beneath her petticoat,
Like little mice stole in and out,

As if they fear'd the light:
But oh! she dances such a way!
No sun upon an Easter Day,

Is half so fine a sight.

Why so dull and mute, young sinner?

Pr’ythee why so mute?
Will, when speaking well can't win her,

Saying nothing do't?
Pr’ythee why so mute?

Quit, quit for shame! this will not move,

This cannot take her;
If of herself she will not love,

Nothing can make her :-
The devil take her.

He wou'd have kiss'd her once or twice,
But she wou'd not, she was so nice,

She wou'd not do't in sight;
And then she look'd as who shou'd say,
I will do what I list to day;

And you shall do't at night.

Her cheeks so rare a white was on,

By this time all were stol'n aside, No daizy makes comparison,

To counsel and undress the bride; (Who sees them is undone)

But that he must not know: For streaks of red were mingled there,

But yet 'twas thought he guest her mind,
Such as are on a Katherine pear,

And did not mean to stay behind
The side that's next the sun.

Above an hour or so.

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When I had done what man could do,

Take up the time; all strive to be And thought the place mine own,

Masters of truth, as victory: The enemy lay quiet too,

And were you come, I'd boldly swear And smil'd at all was done.

A synod might as eas'ly err.

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When I am hungry I do eat,
And cut no fingers 'stead of meat;
Nor with much gazing on her face,
Do e'er rise hungry from the place:

She's fair, &c.

A gentle round fill'd to the brink, To this and t’other friend I drink; And if 'tis nam'd another's health, I never make it her's by stealth:

She's fair, &c.

Blackfriars to me, and old Whitehall,
Is even as much as is the fall
Of fountains on a pathless grove,
And nourishes as much as my love:

She's fair, &c.

TO A FRIEND. Sir, Whether these lines do find you out, Putting or clearing of a doubt; (Whether Predestination, Or reconciling Three in One, Or the unriddling how men die, And live at once eternally, Now take you up) know 'tis decreed You straight bestride the college steed. Leave Socinus and the schoolmen, (Which Jack Bond swears do but fool men) And come to town; 'tis fit you shew Yourself abroad, that men may know (Whate'er some learned men have guest) That oracles are not yet ceasid: There you shall find the wit and wine Flowing alike, and both divine: Dishes, with names not known in books, And less amongst the college cooks, With sauce so poignant that you need Not stay till hunger bids you feed. The sweat of learned Jonson's brain, And gentle Shakespear's easier strain A hackney-coach conveys you to, In spite of all that rain can do: And for your eighteen-pence you sit The lord and judge of all fresh wit. News in one day as much as we've here As serves all Windsor for a year; And which the carrier brings to you, After t'has here been found not true. Then think what company's design'd To meet you here, men so refin'd, Their very common talk at board, Makes wise, or mad, a young court lord: And makes him capable to be Umpire in's father's company. Where no disputes nor forc'd defence Of a man's person for his sense

I visit, talk, do business, play,
And for a need laugh out a day:
Who does not thus in Cupid's school,
He makes not love, but plays the fool:

She's fair, &c.


Hast thou seen the down in the air,

When wanton blasts have tost it? Or the ship on the sea,

When ruder winds have crost it?
Hast thou mark'd the crocodiles weeping,

Or the foxes sleeping ?
Or hast thou view'd the peacock in his pride,

Or the dove by his bride,

When he courts for his leachery? Ols! so fickle, oh! so vain,oh! so false, so false is she!


We short'ned days to moments by Love's art, Thou vermin slander, bred in abject minds,

Whilst our two souls in amorous ecstasy Of thoughts impure, by vile tongues animate,

Perceiv'd no passing time, as if a part Canker of conversation! could'st thou find

Our love had been of still eternity; Nought but our love whereon to shew thy hate?

Much less could have it from the purer fire, Thou never wert, when we two were alone;

Our heat exhales no vapour from coarse sense, What canst thou witness then : thou base dull aid Such as are hopes, or fears, or fond desire; Wast useless in our conversation,

Our mutual love itself did recompense : Where each meant more than could by both be said. Thou hast no correspondence had in heav'n, Whence hadst thou thy intelligence, from earth?

And th' elemental world, thou see'st, is free: That part of us ne'er knew that we did love;

Whence hadst thou then this, talking monster? even Or from the air: our gentle sighs had birth

From hell, a harbour fit for it and thee. From such sweet raptures as to joy did move:

Curst be th' officious tongue that did address Our thoughts, as pure as the chaste morning's breath,

Thee to her ears, to ruin my content:
When from the night's cold arms it creeps away,

May it one minute taste such happiness,
Were cloth'd in words; and maiden's blush that hath Deserving lost unpitied it lament!
More purity, more innocence than they.

I must forbear her sight, and so repay
Nor from the water could'st thou have this tale, In grief, those hours joy short'ned to a dream;
No briny tear has furrow'd her smooth cheek;

Each minute I will lengthen to a day,
And I was pleas'd, I pray what should he ail And in one year outlive Methusalem.
That had her love, for what else could he seek?

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