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When roasted crabs hiss in the bowl,
Then nightly sings the staring owl,
To-whit! tu-whoo !
A merry note,
While greasy Joan doth keel the pot.

A SONG ON FANCY. TELL me, where is fancy bred,

Or in the heart, or in the head;
How begot, how nourished?

Reply, reply.
It is engender'd in the eyes;
With gazing fed ; and Fancy dies
In the cradle where it lies.

Let us all ring Fancy's knell:
I'll begin it. Ding dong bell.

ARIEL's SONG. WHERE the bee sucks, there lurk I;

In a cowslip's bell I lie, There I couch when owls do cry ; On the bat's back I do fly, After sun-set merrily ; Merrily, merrily shall I live now Under the blossom that hangs on the bough.

DIRGE. PEAR

no more the heat o' th' sun, Nor the furious winter's rages; Thou thy worldly task hast done, ,

Home art gone, and ta'en thy wages,
Golden lads and girls, all must,
As chimney-sweepers, come to dust.

Fear no more the frown o' th' great,

Thou art past the tyrant's stroke, Care no more to clothe and eat,

To thee the reed is as the oak. The sceptre, learning, physic, must All follow this, and come to dust. Fear no more the lightning flash,

Nor th' all-dreaded thunder stone; Fear no slander, censure rash,

Thou hast finish'd joy and moan.

SYMPATHIZING LOVE. S it fell upon a day A

In the merry month of May, Sitting in a pleasant shade Which a grove of myrtles made; Beasts did leap, and birds did sing, Trees did grow, and plants did spring ; Every thing did banish moan, Save the nightingale alone. She, poor bird, as all forlorn, Lean'd her breast up-till a thorn; And there sung the mournful'st ditty, That to hear it was great pity: Fie, fie, fie, now would she cry; Tereu, tereu, by and by; That to hear her so complain, Scarce I could from tears refrain; For her griefs, so lively shown, Made me think upon my own. Ah! (thought I) thou mourn'st in vain; None takes pity on thy pain ; Senseless trees, they cannot hear thee, Ruthless bears, they will not cheer thee, King Pandion he is dead; All thy friends are lapp'd in lead; All thy fellow-birds do sing, Careless of thy sorrowing ;

Whilst as fickle fortune smiled,
Thou and I were both beguiled;
Every one that flatters thee,
Is no friend to misery:
Words are easy, like the wind,
Faithful friends are hard to find,
Every man will be thy friend
Whilst thou hast wherewith to spend :
But, if store of crowns be scant,
No man will supply thy want.
If that one bę prodigal,
Bountiful they will him call;
And with such-like flattering,

Pity but he was a king,"
If he be addict to vice,
Quickly him they will entice;
If to women he be bent,
They have him at commandment;
But if Fortune once do frown,
Then farewell bis great renown:
They that fawn'd on him before
Use his company no more.
He that is thy friend indeed,
He will help thee at thy need;
If thou sorrow, he will weep,
If thou wake, he cannot sleep;
Thus, of every grief in heart,
He with thee doth bear a part.
These are certain signs to know
Faithful friend from flattering foe.

JOHN HARRINGTON.

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SONNET.
WHENCE comes my love, Oh heart, disclose !

'Twas from cheeks that shame the rose;
From lips that spoil the ruby's praise ;
From eyes that mock the diamond's blaze.
Whence comes my woe, as freely own,
Ah me! 'twas from a heart of stone.
The blushing cheek speaks modest mind,
The lips befitting words most kind;
The eye doth tempt to love's desire,
And seems to say 'tis Cupid's fire.
Yet all so fair but speak my moan,
Syth nought doth say the heart of stone.
Why thus my love so kind bespeak
Sweet eye, sweet lip, sweet blushing cheek,
Yet not a heart to save my pain ?
O Venus! take thy gifts again.
Make nought so fair to cause our moan,
Or make a heart that's like our own.

SIR PHILIP SYDNEY.

SONNET. FAINT amorist! what, dost thou think

To taste love's honey, and not drink One dram of gall? or to devour A world of sweet, and taste no sour? Dost thou ever think to enter TR Elysian fields, that darest not venture In Charon's barge! a lover's mind Mast use to sail with every wind! He that loves, and fears to try, Learns his mistress to deny. Doth she chide thee! 'tis to shew it That thy coldness makes her do it. Is she silent, is she mute ? Silence fully grants thy suit. Doth she pout and leave the room? Then she goes to bid thee come. Is she sick? why then be sure, She invites thee to the cure, Doth she cross thy suit with “ No?" Tash! she loves to hear thee woo.. Doth she call the faith of men In question ? nay, she loves thee then ; And if e'er she makes a blot, She's lost if that thou hittst her not. He that, after ten denials, Dares attempt no farther trials, Hath no warrant to acquire The dainties of his chaste desire.

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