A TERNARY OF LITTLES

UPON A PIPKIN OF JELLY SENT TO A LADY

A little saint best fits a little shrine,

A little prop best fits a little vine,

As my small cruse best fits my little wine.

A little seed best fits a little soil,

A little trade best fits a little toil,

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As my small jar best fits my little oil.

A little bin best fits a little bread,
A little garland fits a little head,

As my small stuff best fits my little shed.

A little hearth best fits a little fire,

ΙΟ

A little chapel fits a little choir,

As my small bell best fits my little spire.

A little stream best fits a little boat,
A little lead best fits a little float,
As my small pipe best fits my little note.

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A little meat best fits a little belly;
As sweetly, lady, give me leave to tell ye,
This little pipkin fits this little jelly.

A CONJURATION, TO ELECTRA

By those soft tods of wool,
With which the air is full;
By all those tinctures there,
That paint the hemisphere;
By dews and drizzling rain,
That swell the golden grain;
By all those sweets that be
I' th' flow'ry nunnery;
By silent nights, and the
Three forms of Hecate;
By all aspects that bless

The sober sorceress,

While juice she strains, and pith,

To make her philtres with;

By time, that hastens on

Things to perfection;
And by yourself, the best
Conjurement of the rest;
Oh, my Electra! be

In love with none but me.

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ΙΟ

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1648.

UPON JULIA'S CLOTHES

Whenas in silks my Julia goes,

Then, then, methinks, how sweetly flows
That liquefaction of her clothes.

Next, when I cast mine eyes, and see
That brave vibration, each way free,
O, how that glittering taketh me!

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1648.

MODERATION

In things a moderation keep:

Kings ought to shear, not skin, their sheep.

TO HIS SWEET SAVIOUR

Night hath no wings to him that cannot sleep,
And Time seems then not for to fly but creep;
Slowly her chariot drives, as if that she
Had broke her wheel or cracked her axletree.
Just so it is with me, who, list'ning, pray

The winds to blow the tedious night away,

That I might see the cheerful peeping day.

Sick is my heart: O Saviour! do Thou please
To make my bed soft in my sicknesses;

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Lighten my candle, so that I beneath

ΙΟ

Sleep not forever in the vaults of death;

Let me Thy voice betimes i' th' morning hear;

Call and I'll come, say Thou the when and where;
Draw me but first, and after Thee I'll run,
And make no one stop till my race be done.

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