No, live thee to thy self, and keep Thy thoughts as cold as is thy sleep, And let thy dreams be only fed With this, that I am in thy bed; And thou, then turning in that sphere, Waking shalt find me sleeping there.

But yet if boundless l.u.s.t must scale Thy fortress, and will needs prevail, And wildly force a pa.s.sage in, Banish consent, and 'tis no sin Of thine; so Lucrece fell and the Chaste Syracusian Cyane.

So Medullina fell; yet none Of these had imputation For the least trespa.s.s, 'cause the mind Here was not with the act combin'd.

_The body sins not, 'tis the will That makes the action, good or ill._ And if thy fall should this way come, Triumph in such a martyrdom.

I will not over-long enlarge To thee this my religious charge.

Take this compression, so by this Means I shall know what other kiss Is mixed with mine, and truly know, Returning, if't be mine or no: Keep it till then; and now, my spouse, For my wished safety pay thy vows And prayers to Venus; if it please The great blue ruler of the seas, Not many full-faced moons shall wane, Lean-horn'd, before I come again As one triumphant, when I find In thee all faith of womankind.

Nor would I have thee think that thou Had'st power thyself to keep this vow, But, having 'scaped temptation's shelf, Know virtue taught thee, not thyself.

_Queen of Ithaca_, Penelope.

_Incubi_, adulterous spirits.

_Cyane_, a nymph of Syracuse, ravished by her father whom (and herself) she slew.

_Medullina_, a Roman virgin who endured a like fate.

_Compression_, embrace.

466. TO HIS KINSMAN, SIR THOS. SOAME.

Seeing thee, Soame, I see a goodly man, And in that good a great patrician.

Next to which two, among the city powers And thrones, thyself one of those senators; Not wearing purple only for the show, As many conscripts of the city do, But for true service, worthy of that gown, The golden chain, too, and the civic crown.

_Conscripts_, "patres conscripti," aldermen.

467. TO BLOSSOMS.

Fair pledges of a fruitful tree, Why do ye fall so fast?

Your date is not so past But you may stay yet here a while, To blush and gently smile; And go at last.

What! were ye born to be An hour or half's delight, And so to bid good-night?

'Twas pity Nature brought ye forth Merely to show your worth, And lose you quite.

But you are lovely leaves, where we May read how soon things have Their end, though ne'er so brave: And after they have shown their pride Like you a while, they glide Into the grave.

468. MAN'S DYING-PLACE UNCERTAIN.

Man knows where first he ships himself, but he Never can tell where shall his landing be.

469. NOTHING FREE-COST.

Nothing comes free-cost here; Jove will not let His gifts go from him, if not bought with sweat.

470. FEW FORTUNATE.

Many we are, and yet but few possess Those fields of everlasting happiness.

471. TO PERENNA.

How long, Perenna, wilt thou see Me languish for the love of thee?

Consent, and play a friendly part To save, when thou may'st kill a heart.

472. TO THE LADIES.

Trust me, ladies, I will do Nothing to distemper you; If I any fret or vex, Men they shall be, not your s.e.x.

473. THE OLD WIVES' PRAYER.

Holy rood, come forth and shield Us i' th' city and the field: Safely guard us, now and aye, From the blast that burns by day; And those sounds that us affright In the dead of dampish night.

Drive all hurtful fiends us fro, By the time the c.o.c.ks first crow.

475. UPON HIS DEPARTURE HENCE.

Thus I Pa.s.s by, And die: As one Unknown And gone: I'm made A shade, And laid I' th' grave: There have My cave, Where tell I dwell.

Farewell.

476. THE Wa.s.sAIL.

Give way, give way, ye gates, and win An easy blessing to your bin And basket, by our entering in.

May both with manchet stand replete; Your larders, too, so hung with meat, That though a thousand, thousand eat,

Yet, ere twelve moons shall whirl about Their silv'ry spheres, there's none may doubt But more's sent in than was served out.

Next, may your dairies prosper so As that your pans no ebb may know; But if they do, the more to flow,

Like to a solemn sober stream Bank'd all with lilies, and the cream Of sweetest cowslips filling them.

Then, may your plants be prest with fruit, Nor bee, or hive you have be mute; But sweetly sounding like a lute.

Next, may your duck and teeming hen Both to the c.o.c.k's tread say Amen; And for their two eggs render ten.

Last, may your harrows, shears, and ploughs, Your stacks, your stocks, your sweetest mows, All prosper by our virgin vows.

Alas! we bless, but see none here That brings us either ale or beer; _In a dry house all things are near_.

Let's leave a longer time to wait, Where rust and cobwebs bind the gate, And all live here with needy fate.

Where chimneys do for ever weep For want of warmth, and stomachs keep, With noise, the servants' eyes from sleep.

It is in vain to sing, or stay Our free feet here; but we'll away: Yet to the Lares this we'll say:

The time will come when you'll be sad And reckon this for fortune bad, T'ave lost the good ye might have had.