If Pliny, Lord High Treasurer of… Natures exchequer shuffled in this… Peinture her richer rival did admi… And cry’d she wrought with more al… That judg’d the unnumber’d issue o…

AH Lucasta, why so Bright! Spread with early streaked light! If still vailed from our sight, What is’t but eternall night? II

DE PUERO ET PRAECONE.… Cum puero bello praeconem qui vide… Quid credat, nisi se vendere discu… CATUL. With a fair boy a cryer we behold,

Up with the jolly bird of light Who sounds his third retreat to ni… Faire Amarantha from her bed Ashamed starts, and rises red As the carnation-mantled morne,

Chloe behold! againe I bowe, Againe possest, againe I woe ; From my heat hath taken fire, Damas, noble youth, and fries: Gazing with one of mine eyes

Night! loathed jaylor of the lock’… And tyrant-turnkey on committed da… Bright eyes lye fettered in thy du… And Heaven it self doth thy dark… Thou dost arise our living hell;

O thou that swing’st upon the wavi… Of some well—fillèd oaten beard, Drunk every night with a delicious… Dropped thee from heaven, where no… The joys of earth and air are thin…

Introth, I do my self perswade, That the wilde boy is grown a man, And all his childishnesse off laid… E’re since Lucasta did his fires… H’ has left his apish jigs,

Lucasta. TELL me, ALEXIS, what this pa… That so like dying is, but is not… Alexis. It is a swounding for a while from…

Cleft as the top of the inspired h… Struggles the soul of my divided q… Whilst this foot doth the watry mo… That Sinai’s living and enlivenin… Behold my powers storm’d by a twis…

Cold as the breath of winds that b… To silver shot descending snow, Lucasta sigh’t; when she did close The world in frosty chaines! And then a frowne to rubies frose

Amarantha sweet and faire, Ah brade no more that shining hair… As my curious hand or eye, Hovering round thee, let it flye. II.

UNHAPPY youth betrayd by Fate To such a Love hath Sainted Hate… And damned those Cælestiall bonds Are onely knit with equal hands ; The Love of Great Ones? 'Tis a…

Heark! Oh heark! you guilty Tre… In whose gloomy Galleries Was the cruell’st murder done, That e’re yet eclipst the Sunne ; Be then henceforth in your twigges

For cherries plenty, and for coran… Enough for fifty, were there more… For elles of beere, flutes of cana… That well did wash downe pasties-… For peason, chickens, sawces high,