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[In the Nice Valour.)
Hence all you vain delights,
Wherein you spend your folly;
But only melancholy,
Welcome folded arms, and fixed eyes,
Fountain-heads and pathless groves,
A midnight bell, a parting groan,
These are the sounds we feed upon. Then stretch our bones in a still gloomy valley, Nothing's so dainty sweet as lovely melancholy.
[In a Masque.]
Ye should stay longer if we durst
And not a creature nigh 'em,
And keep him ever by 'em.
[In the Queen of Corinth.]
Weep no more, nor sigh, nor groan,
Joys, as winged dreams, fly fast,
[In the Captain.]
”Tis an arrow, 'tis a fire;
'Tis a grave
Gapes to have
" Tell me more, are women true?”.
Some are willing, some are strange,
And till troth
Be in both,
“ Tell me more yet, can they grieve ?” Yes, and sicken sore, but live,
And be wise, and delay
“ Then I see
“ Faith will be “ Never till they both believe.”
[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
Is to live and still live new ;
Make me live by serving you !
[In a Wife for a Month.]
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? i
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.