Be not proud, but now incline Your soft ear to discipline.

You have changes in your life-- Sometimes peace and sometimes strife; You have ebbs of face and flows, As your health or comes or goes; You have hopes, and doubts, and fears Numberless, as are your hairs.

You have pulses that do beat High, and pa.s.sions less of heat.

You are young, but must be old, And, to these, ye must be told Time ere long will come and plough Loathed furrows in your brow: And the dimness of your eye Will no other thing imply But you must die As well as I.

234. NEGLECT.

_Art quickens nature; care will make a face; Neglected beauty perisheth apace._

235. UPON HIMSELF.

Mop-eyed I am, as some have said, Because I've lived so long a maid: But grant that I should wedded be, Should I a jot the better see?

No, I should think that marriage might, Rather than mend, put out the light.

_Mop-eyed_, shortsighted.

236. UPON A PHYSICIAN.

Thou cam'st to cure me, doctor, of my cold, And caught'st thyself the more by twenty fold: Prithee go home; and for thy credit be First cured thyself, then come and cure me.

238. TO THE ROSE. A SONG.

Go, happy rose, and interwove With other flowers, bind my love.

Tell her, too, she must not be Longer flowing, longer free, That so oft has fetter'd me.

Say, if she's fretful, I have bands Of pearl and gold to bind her hands.

Tell her, if she struggle still, I have myrtle rods (at will) For to tame, though not to kill.

Take thou my blessing, thus, and go And tell her this, but do not so, Lest a handsome anger fly, Like a lightning, from her eye, And burn thee up as well as I.

240. TO HIS BOOK.

Thou art a plant sprung up to wither never, But like a laurel to grow green for ever.

241. UPON A PAINTED GENTLEWOMAN.

Men say y'are fair, and fair ye are, 'tis true; But, hark! we praise the painter now, not you.

243. DRAW-GLOVES.

At draw-gloves we'll play, And prithee let's lay A wager, and let it be this: Who first to the sum Of twenty shall come, Shall have for his winning a kiss.

_Draw-gloves_, a game of talking by the fingers.

244. TO MUSIC, TO BECALM A SWEET-SICK YOUTH.

Charms, that call down the moon from out her sphere, On this sick youth work your enchantments here: Bind up his senses with your numbers so As to entrance his pain, or cure his woe.

Fall gently, gently, and a while him keep Lost in the civil wilderness of sleep: That done, then let him, dispossessed of pain, Like to a slumb'ring bride, awake again.

245. TO THE HIGH AND n.o.bLE PRINCE GEORGE, DUKE, MARQUIS, AND EARL OF BUCKINGHAM.

Never my book's perfection did appear Till I had got the name of Villars here: Now 'tis so full that when therein I look I see a cloud of glory fills my book.

Here stand it still to dignify our Muse, Your sober handmaid, who doth wisely choose Your name to be a laureate wreath to her Who doth both love and fear you, honoured sir.

246. HIS RECANTATION.

Love, I recant, And pardon crave That lately I offended; But 'twas, Alas!

To make a brave, But no disdain intended.

No more I'll vaunt, For now I see Thou only hast the power To find And bind A heart that's free, And slave it in an hour.

247. THE COMING OF GOOD LUCK.

So good luck came, and on my roof did light, Like noiseless snow, or as the dew of night: Not all at once, but gently, as the trees Are by the sunbeams tickled by degrees.

248. THE PRESENT; OR, THE BAG OF THE BEE.

Fly to my mistress, pretty pilfering bee, And say thou bring'st this honey bag from me: When on her lip thou hast thy sweet dew placed, Mark if her tongue but slyly steal a taste.

If so, we live; if not, with mournful hum Toll forth my death; next, to my burial come.

249. ON LOVE.

Love bade me ask a gift, And I no more did move But this, that I might shift Still with my clothes my love: That favour granted was; Since which, though I love many, Yet so it comes to pa.s.s That long I love not any.

250. THE HOCK-CART OR HARVEST HOME. TO THE RIGHT HONOURABLE MILDMAY, EARL OF WESTMORELAND.

Come, sons of summer, by whose toil We are the lords of wine and oil: By whose tough labours and rough hands We rip up first, then reap our lands.

Crowned with the ears of corn, now come, And to the pipe sing harvest home.

Come forth, my lord, and see the cart Dressed up with all the country art: See here a maukin, there a sheet, As spotless pure as it is sweet: The horses, mares, and frisking fillies, Clad all in linen white as lilies.

The harvest swains and wenches bound For joy, to see the hock-cart crowned.

About the cart, hear how the rout Of rural younglings raise the shout; Pressing before, some coming after, Those with a shout, and these with laughter.

Some bless the cart, some kiss the sheaves, Some prank them up with oaken leaves: Some cross the fill-horse, some with great Devotion stroke the home-borne wheat: While other rustics, less attent To prayers than to merriment, Run after with their breeches rent.

Well, on, brave boys, to your lord's hearth, Glitt'ring with fire, where, for your mirth, Ye shall see first the large and chief Foundation of your feast, fat beef: With upper stories, mutton, veal And bacon (which makes full the meal), With sev'ral dishes standing by, As here a custard, there a pie, And here all-tempting frumenty.

And for to make the merry cheer, If smirking wine be wanting here, There's that which drowns all care, stout beer; Which freely drink to your lord's health, Then to the plough, the commonwealth, Next to your flails, your fans, your fats, Then to the maids with wheaten hats: To the rough sickle, and crook'd scythe, Drink, frolic boys, till all be blithe.

Feed, and grow fat; and as ye eat Be mindful that the lab'ring neat, As you, may have their fill of meat.