Ask me no more whither do stray
The golden atoms of the day;
For, in pure love, heaven did prepare
Those powders to enrich your hair.

Ask me no more whither doth haste
The nightingale when May is past;
For in your sweet dividing throat
She winters, and keeps warm her note.

Ask me no more where those stars light,
That downwards fall in dead of night;
For in your eyes they sit, and there
Fixed become, as in their sphere.

Ask me no more if east or west,
The phoenix builds her spicy nest;
For unto you at last she flies,
And in your fragrant bosom dies!

Thomas Carew.

XXXI.

JULIA'S BED.

SEE'ST thou that cloud as silver clear, Plump, soft, and swelling everywhere? 'Tis Julia's bed, and she sleeps there.

Robert Herrick.

XXXII

UPON JULIA'S CLOTHES.

WHEN as 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!

Robert Herrick.

XXXIII.

DELIGHT IN DISORDER.

A SWEET disorder in the dress
Kindles in clothes a wantonness;
A lawn about the shoulders thrown
Into a fine distraction;

An erring lace, which here and there
Enthralls the crimson stomacher;
A cuff neglectful, and thereby
Ribbons to flow confusedly;

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

Is too precise in every part.

Robert Herrick.

XXXIV.

My Love in her attire doth show her wit, It doth so well become her:

For every season she hath dressings fit,

For winter, spring, and summer.

No beauty she doth miss

When all her robes are on:

But Beauty's self she is

When all her robes are gone.

Unknown.

XXXV.

CHERRY-RIPE.

THERE is a garden in her face
Where roses and white lilies blow;
A heavenly paradise is that place,
Wherein all pleasant fruits do grow;
There cherries grow that none may buy,
Till cherry-ripe themselves do cry.

Those cherries fairly do enclose
Of orient pearl a double row,
Which when her lovely laughter shows,
They look like rose-buds fill'd with snow
Yet them no peer nor prince may buy,
Till cherry-ripe themselves do cry.

Her eyes like angels watch them still;
Her brows like bended bows do stand,
Threat'ning with piercing frowns to kill
All that approach with eye or hand
These sacred cherries to come nigh,-
Till cherry-ripe themselves do cry!

Richard Allison.

XXXVI.

THE SOLDIER GOING TO THe field.

PRESERVE thy sighs, unthrifty girl!
To purify the air;

Thy tears to thread, instead of pearl,
On bracelets of thy hair.

The trumpet makes the echo hoarse,
And wakes the louder drum ;
Expense of grief gains no remorse,
When sorrow should be dumb.

For I must go where lazy peace
Will hide her drowsy head;
And, for the sport of kings, increase
The number of the dead.

But first I'll chide thy cruel theft :
Can I in war delight,

Who, being of my heart bereft,
Can have no heart to fight?

Thou knowest the sacred laws of old,
Ordained a thief should pay,
To quit him of his theft, sevenfold
What he had stolen away.

payment shall but double be; then with speed resign My own seduced heart to me, Accompanied with thine.

Sir William Davenant.

XXXVII.

WHY so pale and wan, fond lover?
Prithee why so pale?

Will, when looking well can't move her,
Looking ill prevail?

Prithee why so pale?

Why so dull and mute, young sinner?
Prithee why so mute?

Will, when speaking well can't win her,
Saying nothing do't?

Prithee why so mute?

Quit, quit, for shame, this will not move,
This cannot take her;

If of herself she will not love,

Nothing can make her:

The devil take her.

Sir John Suckling.

XXXVIII.

SHALL I, wasting in despair,
Die because a woman's fair?
Or my cheeks make pale with care
'Cause another's rosy are?

Be she fairer than the day

Or the flowery meads in May-
If she be not so to me

What care I how fair she be?

Shall my foolish heart be pined 'Cause I see a woman kind;

Or a well disposéd nature
Joined with a lovely feature?
Be she meeker, kinder, than
Turtle-dove or pelican,

If she be not so to me

What care I how kind she be?

Shall a woman's virtues move
Me to perish for her love?
Or her merit's value known
Make me quite forget my own?
Be she with that goodness blest
Which may gain her name of Best;
If she seem not such to me,
What care I how good she be?

'Cause her fortune seems too high,
Shall I play the fool and die?

Those that bear a noble mind

Where they want of riches find,

Think what with them they would do
Who without them dare to woo:
And unless that mind I

see,

What care I tho' great she be?

Great or good, or kind or fair,
I will ne'er the more despair;
If she loves me, this believe,
I will die ere she shall grieve;
If she slight me when I woo,
I can scorn and let her go;

For if she be not for me,
What care I for whom she be?

George Wither.

XXXIX.

THE NIGHT PIECE.

TO JULIA.

HER eyes the glow-worm lend thee,
The shooting stars attend thee;

And the elves also,

Whose little eyes glow,

Like the sparks of fire, befriend thee.