Go woo young Charles no more to look,
Than but to read this in my book;
How Herrick begs if that he can-
Not like the Muse, to love the man,
Who by the shepherds sung long since,
The star-led birth of Charles the Prince.

ENCOMIASTIC VERSES.

CCCXLIII.

THE POET'S GOOD WISHES FOR THE MOST HOPEFUL AND HANDSOME PRINCE, THE DUKE OF YORK.

May his pretty dukeship grow
Like t' a rose of Jericho ;
Sweeter far than ever yet

Show'rs or sunshines could beget.

May the graces and the hours

Strew his hopes, and him with flowers; And so dress him up with love,

As to be the chick of Jove.

May the thrice-three-sisters sing
Him the sovereign of their spring;

And entitle none to be

Prince of Helicon but he.

May his soft foot, where it treads,
Gardens thence produce and meads;
And those meadows full be set

With the rose and the violet.
May his ample name be known
To the last succession;

And his actions high be told
Through the world, but writ in gold.

DIII.

DISCONTENTS IN DEVON.

More discontents I never had,

Since I was born, than here;
Where I have been, and still am sad,
In this dull Devon-shire.
Yet, justly too, I must confess,
I ne'er invented such
Ennobled numbers for the press,
Than were I loath'd so much.

DIV.

TO PERILLA.

Ah, my Perilla! dost thou grieve to see
Me, day by day, to steal away from thee?
Age calls me hence, and my grey hairs bid come
And haste away to mine eternal home:

'Twill not be long, Perilla, after this,
That I must give thee the supremest kiss :
Dead when I am, first cast in salt, and bring
Part of the cream from that religious spring,
With which, Perilla, wash my hands and feet;
That done, then wind me in that very sheet
Which wrapt thy smooth limbs, when thou didst im-
plore

The gods' protection but the night before;

Follow me weeping to my turf, and there
Let fall a primrose, and with it a tear;
Then lastly, let some weekly strewings be
Devoted to the memory of me!

Then shall my ghost not walk about, but keep

Still in the cool and silent shades of sleep.

DV.

COMFORT TO A YOUTH THAT HAD LOST HIS LOVE.

What needs complaints,

When she a place

Has with the race

Of saints

In endless mirth,
She thinks not on
What's said or done

In earth;

She sees no tears,

Or any tone

Of thy deep groan

She hears;

Nor does she mind,

Or think on't now,

That ever thou

Wast kind:

But chang'd above,
She likes not there,
As she did here,
Thy love.

Forbear, therefore,
And lull asleep

Thy woes, and weep
No more.

DVI.

HIS DESIRE.

Give me a man that is not dull,

When all the world with rifts is full;

But unamaz'd dares clearly sing,
When as the roof's a tottering;
And though it falls, continues still
Tickling the Cittern with his quill.

DVII.

TO PERENNA.

I a dirge will pen for thee;
Thou a trental make for me;
That the monks and friars together,
Here may sing the rest of either :
Next, I'm sure, the nuns will have
Candlemas to grace the grave.

DVIII.

CONFORMITY.

Conformity was ever known
A foe to dissolution;

Nor can we that a ruin call,
Whose crack gives crushing unto all.

DIX.

HIS CAVALIER.

Give me that man that dares bestride
The active sea-horse, and with pride,
Through that huge field of waters ride:
Who with his looks too, can appease
The ruffling winds and raging seas,
In mids't of all their outrages.
This, this a virtuous man can do,
Sail against rocks, and split them too;
Aye, and a world of pikes pass through.