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Joys, as winged dreams, fly fast,
Why should sadness longer last ?
Grief is but a wound to woe,
Gentlest fair! mourn, mourn, no moe,

DU E T.

[In the Captain.]
66 Tell me, dearest, what is love ?"
"Tis a lightning from above ;

'Tis an arrow, 'tis a fire;
'Tis a boy they call Desire ;

'Tis a grave

Gapes to have
Those poor fools that long to prove.

66 Tell me more, are women true?".
Yes, some are, and some as you.
Some are willing, some are strange,
Since you men first taught to change ;

And till troth

Be in both,
All shall love, to love anew.

“ Tell me more yet, can they grieve?” Yes, and sicken sore, but live,

And be wise, and delay
When you men are as wise as they:

“ Then I see

“ Faith will be “ Never till they both believe.”

SON 6.

[In the Elder Brother.]

Beauty clear and fair, Where the air

Rather like a perfume dwells ; Where the violet and the rose Their blue veins in blush disclose,

And come to honour nothing else.

Where to live near
And planted there,

Is to live and still live new;
Where to gain a favour is
More than light, perpetual bliss ;

Make me live by serving you !

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Let those complain that feel love's cruelty,

And in sad legends write their woes ; With roses gently he has corrected me;

My war is without rage or blows; My mistress' eyes shine fair on my desires, And hope springs up inflam’d with her new fires.

No more an exile will I dwell,

With folded arms and sighs all day, Reckoning the torments of my hell,

And flinging my sweet joys away. I am call’d home again to quiet peace, My mistress smiles, and all my sorrows cease.

Yet what is living in her eye,

Or being blest with her sweet tongue, If these no other joys imply?

A golden gyve, a pleasing wrong. To be your own but one poor month, I'd give My youth, my fortune, and then leave to live.

FRANCIS BEAUMONT.

A CHARM.

(From his Poems, 1640.]

SLEEP, old man ! let silence charm thee;

Dreaming slumbers overtake thee: Quiet thoughts, and darkness arm thee,

That no creaking do awake thee !

Phæbe hath put out her light,

All her shadows closing : Phæbe lends her horns to-night

To thy head's disposing.

Let no fatal bell or clock,

Pierce the hollow of thine ear! Tongueless be the early cock,

Or what else may add a fear.

Let no rat, nor silly mouse,

Move the senseless rushes ; Nor a cough disturb this house

Till Aurora blushes!

Come, my sweet Corinna, come,

Laugh, and leave thy late deploring, Sable midnight makes all dumb,

But thy jealous husband's snoring.

And with thy sweet perfumed kisses,

Entertain a stranger:
Love's delight and sweetest bliss, is

Got with greatest danger.

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