Not wooed to madness by quaint oaths,

Or the fine rhetoric of clothes;

Which not the softness of the age

To vice or folly doth decline:

Give me that heart, Castara!---for 'tis thine.

Take thou a heart, where no new look

Provokes new appetite;

With no fresh charm of beauty took,
Or wanton stratagem of wit;
Not idly wandering here and there,

Led by an amorous eye or ear,

Aiming each beauteous mark to hit ;

Which virtue doth to one confine :

Take thou that heart, Castara !---for 'tis mine.

THE

BAG OF THE BEE.

BY HERRICK.

ABOUT the sweet-bag of a bee

Two Cupids fell at odds;

And whose the pretty prize should be

They vow'd to ask the gods,

Which Venus hearing, thither came,
And for their boldness stript them,
And, taking from them each his flame,
With rods of myrtle whipt them.

Which done, to still their wanton cries, When quiet grown she'd seen them, She kiss'd, and wiped their dove-like eyes, And gave the bag between them.

THE

MAD MAID'S SONG.

BY THE SAME.

GOOD-morrow to the day so fair!

Good-morning, sir, to you!

Good-morrow to mine own torn hair,

Bedabbled with the dew!

Good-morning to this primrose too!

Good-morrow to each maid,

That will with flowers the tomb bestrew

Wherein my love is laid!

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 knows well who do love him;
And who with green-turfs rear his head,
And who do rudely move him.

He's soft and tender-pray, take heed !---
With bands of cowslips bind him;
And bring him home--but 'tis decreed
That I shall never find him!

THE VOYAGE.

BY BROWNE.

SWELL, but gently swell, ye floods,

As proud of what ye bear,

And nymphs, that in low coral woods
String pearls upon your hair,
Ascend, and tell if ere this day
A fairer prize was seen at sea.

Blow, but gently blow, fair wind,

From the forsaken shore,

And be as to the halcyon kind,

Till we have ferry'd o'er;

So may'st thou still have leave to blow
And fan the way where she shall go.

THE

SYREN'S SONG.

BY THE SAME.

STEER, hither steer your winged pines,

All beaten mariners!

Here lie Love's undiscover'd mines,

A prey to passengers:

Perfumes far sweeter than the best

Which make the Phoenix' urn and nest.

Fear not your ships,

Nor any to oppose you, save our lips;

But come on shore,

Where no joy dies till Love hath gotten more. For swelling waves, our panting breasts,

Where never storms arise,

Exchange, and be awhile our guests;
For stars, gaze on our eyes;

The compass Love shall hourly sing,

And, as he goes about the ring,

We will not miss

To tell each point he nameth with a kiss. Then come on shore,

Where no joy dies 'till Love hath gotten more.

THE PRIMROSE.

BY CAREW.

Ask me why I send you here

This firstling of the infant year;
Ask me why I send to you

This primrose, all bepearl'd with dew;

I straight will whisper in your ears,

The sweets of love are wash'd with tears.
Ask me why this flower doth shew

So yellow, green, and sickly too;

Ask me why the stalk is weak,

And bending, yet it doth not break ;---
I must tell you, these discover

What doubts and fears are in a lover.