You may (there is no treason in 't) Before she was akin to me Only in soul and amity; But now we are, since shee's your bride, In soul and body both allyde: "Tis this has made me less to do, And I in one can honour two. This match a riddle may be styled, Two mothers now have but one child; Yet need we not a Solomon, Each mother here enjoyes her own. Many there are I know have tried To cut in twaine the Gordian knot: And drew a ship to Rome by land: Come, all ye Muses, and rejoice Come gather roses at her cheek. Come, Hymen, light thy torches, let Thy bed with tapers be beset, And if there be no fire by, Come light thy taper at her eye; In that bright eye there dwells a starre, And wise men by it guided are. In those delicious eyes there be Two little balls of ivory : How happy is he then that may With these two dainty balls goe play. Unlesse for very joy to cry. O let your joy continue! may A whole age be your wedding-day! That your deare spouse embraceth you? Then you from heaven are not farre, Come, all ye Muses, and rejoyce ‹ At your Apollo's happy choice. VERSES IN HONOUR OF BISHOP CORBE T, Found in a blank leaf of his Poems in MS. Ir flowing wit, if verses writ with ease, If learning void of pedantry can please; If much good-humour joined to solid sense, Though bright yet solid, pleasant but not rude, Be silent, Muse, thy praises are too faint, J. C. UPON MY GOOD LORD THE BISHOP OF NORWICHE, RICHARD CORBET, WHO DYED JULY 28, 1635, AND LYES BURIED IN HIS CATHEDRAL CHURCHE. [By Mr. JOHN TAYLOR of NORWICH: From the Cabinet, published there in 1795.] YE rural bardes who haunte the budding groves, Tune your wilde reeds to sing the wood-larkes loves, And let the softe harpe of the hawthorn vale Yet haplie, Drummond, well thy muse might raise Aires not earth-born to suit my raven's praise. |