UNCERTAIN AUTHORS. SONG. [From "the Academy of Compliments," edit. 1671.] COME, Chloris, hie we to the bower, To sport us ere the day be done! Such is thy power, that every flower Will ope to thee as to the sun. And if a flower but chance to die With my sigh's blast or mine eyes' rain, Thou canst revive it with thine eye, And with thy breath make sweet again. The wanton suckling, and the vine, Will strive for th' honour, who first may With their green arms encircle thine, To keep the burning sun away. [From "Windsor Drollery," London, 1672.] CUPID once was weary grown With women's errands-laid him down On a refreshing rosy bed The same sweet covert harboured A bee; and as she always had A quarrel with love's idle lad, Stings the soft boy: pain and strong fears "Does a bee's sting make all this stir? [In "Wither Redivivus, in a small new-year's-gift," 4to. 1689, and there called " a copy from verses "long since made."] [From 11 stanzas.] OPINION rules the human state, Shall sea or mountain separate Whom God hath join'd in nature's band? Lend me the bright wings of the morn, Far swifter than the lamp of night: Features and colours of the hair, These all do meet in harmony; In single simple love alone These various colours are but one. I' th' phlegmatic I sweetness find, The melancholy, grave and wise; The sanguine, merry to my mind, From choler, flames of love arise: In single simple love alone All these complexions are but one. The nightingale doth never say Unto the cuckoo or the jay, Each tunes his harp in love alone, With open arms let me embrace The Heathen, Christian, Turk, or Jew, The lovely and deformed face, The sober and the jovial crew. In single simple love alone All forms and features are but one, REASON. [In Stephens's" Oxford Miscellanies," 1685, 8vo.] [From 8 stanzas.] REASON, thou vain impertinence, Deluding hypocrite, begone! And go and plague your men of sense, In vain some dreaming thinking fool Would make thee o'er our senses reign, And all our noble passions rule, And constitute this creature man. In vain some dotard may pretend At best, thou'rt but a glimmering light, Which serves not to direct our way; But, like the moon, confounds our sight, And only shews it is not day. |