Some brittle sticks of thorn or briar Close by whose living coal I sit, Lord, I confess too, when I dine, And all those other bits that be There placed by thee; The worts, the purslain, and the mess Which of thy kindness thou hast sent; Makes those, and my beloved beet, 'Tis thou that crown'st my glittering hearth With guiltless mirth, And giv'st me wassail bowls to drink, Lord, 'tis thy plenty-dropping hand And giv'st me, for my bushel sown, Twice ten for one; Thou mak'st my teeming hen to lay Her egg each day; Besides, my healthful ewes to bear The while the conduits of my kine All these, and better, thou dost send That I should render, for my part, A thankful heart; Which, fired with incense, I resign, -But the acceptance, that must be, My Christ, by Thee. THE MAD MAID'S SONG. Good morrow to the day so fair; Good morrow to mine own torn hair, Good morning to this primrose too; That will with flowers the tomb bestrew Ah! woe is me, woe, woe is me, Alack and well-a-day! For pity, sir, find out that bee, I'll seek him in your bonnet brave; Nay, now I think they've made his grave I'll seek him there; I know, ere this, The cold, cold earth doth shake him; But I will go, or send a kiss By you, sir, to awake him. Pray hurt him not; though he be dead, He's soft and tender, pray take heed, UPON JULIA'S CLOTHES. Whenas in silks my Julia goes, Till, then, methinks, how sweetly flows Next, when I cast mine eyes, and see That brave vibration each way free; O how that glittering taketh me! DELIGHT IN DISORDER. A sweet disorder in the dress An erring lace, which here and there A winning wave, deserving note, In the tempestuous petticoat; A careless shoe-string, in whose tie I see a wild civility ; Do more bewitch me, than when art ART ABOVE NATURE When I behold a forest spread And all those airy silks to flow, CHERRY-RIPE. Cherry-ripe, ripe, ripe, I cry, THE BRIDE-CAKE This day, my Julia, thou must make Formers ought to My God! of you must commun make it mething HIS PRAYER TO BEN JONSON. When I a verse shall make, For old religion's sake, Saint Ben, to aid me. Make the way smooth for me, Candles I'll give to thee, And thou, Saint Ben, shalt be AN ODE FOR BEN JONSON. Ah Ben! Say how or when Shall we, thy guests, The Dog, the Triple Tun; As made us nobly wild, not mad? Out-did the meat, out-did the frolic wine. Or come again, Or send to us Thy wit's great overplus; But teach us yet Wisely to husband it, Lest we that talent spend; And having once brought to an end Of such a wit the world should have no more. TO ANTHEA. Bid me to live, and I will live Or bid me love, and I will give A heart as soft, a heart as kind, As in the whole world thou canst find, |