The Second Book of Ayres, and Dialogues

Help, help, o helpe, Divinity of Love, 
Or Neptune will commit a Rape
Upon my Cloris, she's on his bosom 
and without a wonder cannot scape.
See, see, the winds grow drunk with joy, 
And throng so fast to see Lov's Argo, and the wealth it bears, 
that now the tackling and the sails they teare,
They fight, they fight, who shall convey
Amintors Love into her Bay, 
And hurle whole seas at one another,
As if they would the welkin smother. 
Hold Boreas, hold, he will not hear. 

The Rudder cracks, the Main-Mast falls, 
The Pilot swears, the Skipper bawls, 
A showr of clouds in darknes fall, 
To put out Cloris light withall;
Ye Gods where are yee, are ye all asleep, 
Or drunk, with Nectar? why doe you not keepe 
A watch upon your Ministers of Fate, 
Tie up the winds, or they will blow the Seas 
To Heaven, and drowne your Deities.

A Calme, a Calme, Miracle of Love, 
The Sea-borne Queene that sits above, 
Hath heard Amintors cryes, 
And Neptune now must lose his prize. 

Welcome, Cloris, to the shore, 
Thou shalt goe to Sea no more: 
Wee to Tempes groves will goe, 
Where the calmer winds doe blow, 
And embark our hearts together, 
Fearing neither rocks, nor weather, 
But out-ride the stormes of Love, 
And for ever constant prove.

Now, now Lucasia, now make haste,
If thou wilt see how strong thou art, 
There needs but one frown more, to waste 
The whole remainder of my heart.
Alas undone, to Fate, I bow my head, 
Ready to die, now die, and now, am dead. 

You looke to have an age of triall 
ere you a Lover will repay, 
but my state brooks no more deniall: 
I cannot this one minute stay. 
Alas undone, to Fate, I bow my head, 
Ready to die, now die, and now, am dead. 

Look in my wound, and see how cold, 
How pale and gasping my soule lyes, 
which nature strives in vaine to hold, 
Whil'st wing'd with sighes a way it flies. 
Alas undone, to Fate, I bow my head, 
Ready to die, now die, and now, am dead. 

See, see, already Charons boat, 
Who grimly asks why all this stay? 
Harke how the fatall Sisters shout, 
And now they call, away, a way. 
Alas undone, to Fate, I bow my head, 
Ready to die, now die, and now, am dead. 

Can so much Beauty own a mind? 
Oreswayd by tyranny, 
As new afflicting wayes to finde, 
A doubtles faith to try, 
and all example to out-do, 
to scorn and make me jealous too; 
Alasse! shee knowes my fires are too too great; 
   And though shee bee, 
   Stone ice to mee, 
Her thaw to others cannot quench my heat. 

That Law which with such force o're ran
The Armies of my heart,
When no one thought I could out man,
That durst once take my part.
For by assault she did invade,
No composition to be made:
Then, since all must yeeld as well as I
   To stand in aw
   Of Victors Law
Ther's no prescribing in captivity.

That Love which loves for common ends,
Is but selfe loving love,
But nobler conversation tends
Soule mysteries to prove.
And since Love is a passive thing,
It multiplies by suffering.
Then, though she throw life to the waning Moon,
   On him her shine,
   The dark part mine,
Yet I must love her still when all is done.

Deere thy face is heaven to mee, 
And the presence of thine eyes; 
Is like that same light wee see, 
Which descendeth from the skies. 
O then since my heav'n thou art, 
And thine eyes my heav'nly light, 
Doe but think what 'tis to part 
And to leave thy blessed sight. 

If that Darknes still should maske
The fair visage of the sun,
Heav'n would tell us if we ask
All things would to ruine run:
O then since my heav'n thou art, 
and thine eyes my heav'nly light, 
doe but think what 'tis to part 
and to leave thy blessed sight. 

Sun and you like influence have
Which give light to things below,
You likewise from death doe save,
When you doe your beams but show:
O then since my sun thou art,
And thine eyes my heav'nly light,
Doe but grieve that I did part,
And was forc't to leave thy sight.

Goe little winged Archer and convey 
A flaming dart
Into her heart,
Then steal away 
As soone as thou hast set her all on fire, 
And left her burning in her chaste desire.

Thus teach her what it is to love, that she
When that her eyes
Doe tyrannize
May pity me;
And know the flame that hath my heart possest
By the distemper of her scorched breast.

And when she burns if shee'l appease my flame
With smiles which fly,
Oft as her eye,
I'le doe the same;
So may we love, and burn, but ne'r expire,
While we add fuell to each others fire.

O Turn away those cruell eyes, 
The stars of my undoing, 
Or death in such a bright disguise, 
May tempt a second wooing:
Punish their blind and impious pride, 
Who dare contemne thy Glory, 
It was my fall that deifyde 
Thy name, and seald thy story. 

Yet no new suffering can prepare
A higher praise to crown that,
Though my first death proclaime thee fair,
My second will unthrone thee.
Lovers will doubt thou canst intice
No other for thy fuell,
And if thou turne one victim twice,
Or thinke thee poor, or cruell.

Cupid who didst ne're see light, 
nor know'st the pleasure of the sight, 
but ever blinded canst not say, 
now it is night, or now tis day: 
so captivate her sence, so blind her eye, 
that still she love me, though she know not why. 

Thou that woundest with such art,
We see no bloud drop from the heart,
And subtly cruell leav'st no signe
To tell the blow, or hand was thine:
O gently, gently wound my favre, that she
May hence beleeve the wound did come from thee.

Such was the sorrow Cloris felt 
At her Amintors parting, 
Her heart the pain (aboad) so deal't 
(Perhaps to ease the smarting) 
I saw what she essay'd to hide
(Rays'd by her griefs devouring) 
Down from her eyes a silver ride, 
Twixt Pinks and Lillies powring. 

Whilst Love (at fall of ev'ry tear,
Weary perhaps with playing)
Sat to refresh, and bath him there,
His pointed wings displaying.
But soon the stream her fayre hand dries,
When straight you might espie him
Into the sun shine of her eyes,
Pearcht up to prune and dry him.

Go, lovely Rose! --
Tell her, that wastes her time and me,
  That now she knows,
When I resemble her to thee,
How sweet and fair she seems to be.

Tell her that's young,
  And shuns to have her graces spied
That hadst thou sprung
  In deserts, where no men abide,
Thou must have uncommended died.

Small is the worth
  Of beauty from the light retir'd;
Bid her come forth,
  Suffer herself to be desir'd,
And not blush so to be admir'd.

Then die! -- that she
  The common fate of all things rare
May read in thee:
  How small a part of time they share
That are so wondrous sweet and fair!

 ... 

Bee not proud cause fair and trim, 
But let those lips be tasted, 
Those eyes will hollow prove and dim; 
That lip and brow be wasted, 
And to love whole be perswaded, 
Sullied slowr's or beauty faded. 
O thou art soft as is the ayre, 
Or the words that court the faire, 
Then let those flames by Lovers felt, 
That scorch'd my heart, make thine to melt. 

Tell me no more tis love 
Your passions move 
In a phantasticke sphear, 
And only there, 
Thus you confine 
What is divine, 
When love hath power and can dispence
Sufficient to the soul and sence.

Tis Love the sence informs
And cold bloud warms,
Nor gives the soule a Throne
To us alone,
But bids them bend
Both to one end,
And then tis Love when thus design'd,
They make another of their kind.

How long shall I a Martyr be, 
To love and womans cruelty? 
Or why doth sullen Fate confine 
My heart to one that is not mine: 
Had I ere lov'd as others doe, 
But only for an houre or two 
Then there had store of reason bin, 
Why I should suffer for my sin. 

But love thou knowest with what a flame
I have ador'd my mistris name:
How I neer offered other fires,
But such as rose from chaste desires:
Nor have I ere prophaned thy shrine
With an inconstant fickle minde;
Yet thou combining with my Fate,
Hath forc't my love and her to hate.

O Love if her supremacy
Have not a greater power then thee
For pities sake then once be kinde,
And throw a dart to change her minde;
Thy deity we shall suspect,
If our reward must be neglect.
Then make her love or let me bee
Inspir'd with scorne as well as she.

When as Leander young was drown'd 
No heart by Love receiv'd a wound, 
But on a rock himself sat by, 
There weeping sup'rabundantly. 
 ... 
His head upon his hand he laid, 
And sighing deeply, thus he said:
"Ah, cruel Fate!," and, looking on't, 
Wept as he'd drown the Hellespont. 
And sure his tongue had more express'd 
Had not his tears forbade the rest.

Ah, ah! the false fatall tale I read, 
When my heart heedlesse and unwise, 
First studied, and false commented 
On the unknown text of thy lov'd eyes, 
When thy glib-running lavish tongue 
Showr'd down more oaths thy faith t'avow, 
Then morning dews on flowr's are hung, 
Or blossoms on the Summer bough: 
So was my silly truth betrayd, 
By a smooth tongue and winning eye, 
Poysons by which ther's many a mayd 
Has perisht sure as well as I.

O how I hate thee now 
And my selfe too, 
For loving such a false, false thing as thee! 
Who hourly canst depart 
From heart, to heart, 
To take new harbour as thou didst in me; 
But when the world shall spie, 
And know thy shifts as well as I, 
They'l shut their hearts and take thee in no more; 
He that can dwell with none, must out of door. 

Thy pride hath overgrown
All this great Town
Which stoops, and bowes, as low as I to you;
Thy falshood might support
All the new Court
Which shifts, and turne, almost as oft as thou.
But to expresse thee by,
Ther's not an object low, or high,
For 'twill be found, when ere the measures tride,
Nothing can read thy falshood, but thy pride.

Ladies, you that seeme so nice, 
And as cold in shew as Ice, 
And perhaps have held out thrice, 
Doe not think but in a trice, 
One or other may entice, 
And at last by some device, 
Set your honours at a price. 

You whose smooth and dainty skin,
Rosie lips, or cheeks, or chin,
All that gaze upon you win;
Yet insult not, sparks within,
Slowly burn ere flames begin,
And presumption still hath bin
Held a most notorious sin.

On this swelling bank (once proud
Of its burthen) Cloris lay:
Heer she smis'd, and did uncloud 
Those bright suns ecclips the day. 

Heere we sate, and with kind art
She about me twin'd her arms,
Claspd in hers my hand and heart
Fetter'd by those pleasing charms.

Heer my love and joyes she crownd
Whil'st the hours stood still before me,
With a killing glance did wound
And a melting kisse restore me.

On the down of eyther breast
Whil'st with joy my soule retir'd,
My resigning heart did rest
Till her lips new life inspir'd.

The renewing of these sights,
Doth with griefe and pleasure fill me,
And the thought of those delights
Both at once revive and kill me.

Cloris, since first our calme of peace
Was frighted hence, this good wee finde,
Your favours with your fears increase,
And growing mischiefe makes you kinde;
So the fayre tree (which still preserves
Her fruit and state when no winde blow's) 
In stormes, from that uprightnesse swerv's, 
And the glad Earth about her strowes 
With treasure from her yeelding boughs.

Yes, yes, 'tis Cloris sings, 'tis she; 
Mark how the Nymphs and Shepheards all 
Flock to her: so the Master Bee 
The swarm leads with his awfull call; 
So to the Thracian Lyre the floods 
Resorted, and the listning woods: 
So shoals of Dolphins on the green wav's spring, 
When Doris or her Sea-born daughters sing. 
And so her Notes ther hearts benum: 
One looks pale, others eyes ore flow 
With tears of pleasure, perhaps some, 
Distill from sad hearts, teares of woe; 
But as if fetter'd in a chain 
To soft their passions felt no paine, 
Shee stops no sooner, but th'inchanted throng 
Straight cry, sweet Cloris sing an other song.

Know, Celia, since thou art so proud,	
  ’Twas I that gave thee thy renown;	
Thou hadst in the forgotten crowd	
  Of common beauties lived unknown,	
Had not my verse exhal'd thy name,
And with it imp’d the wings of Fame.	
 
That killing power is none of thine:	
  I gave it to thy voice and eyes;	
Thy sweets, thy graces, all are mine;	
  Thou art my star, shin’st in my skies;
Then dart not from thy borrowed sphere	
Lightning on him that fixed thee there.	
 
Tempt me with such affrights no more,	
  Lest what I made I uncreate;	
Let fools thy mystic forms adore,
  Ile know thee in thy mortal state:	
Wise poets, that wrapt Truth in tales,	
Knew her themselves through all her veils.	

When we were parted, 
Though but for a while, 
From my brest started 
A post ev'ry mile: 
But I feare, none were directed 
From your bosome to me; 
For a beauty so affected, 
Looks for Love custome free. 

Tis then no marveill
My state should decay,
Brought to be servil
And kept from my pay.
But ingratefull to the giver,
Know the Sea as your King,
Can as well exhaust a river,
As you suck up a spring.

And though triumphing
You rowle to the Main
Small streams are something
And part of your train.
Use me gently then that follow
Made by custome so tame,
I am silent whilest you swallow
Both my tears, and my name.

Delicate Beauty, why should you disdaine 
With pity at least, to lessen my pain? 
Yet if you purpose to render no cause, 
Will and not Reason is Judge of those Lawes. 

Suffer in silence I can with delight
Courting your Anger to live in your sight,
Inwardly languish, and like my disease,
Alwaies provided my sufferance please.

Take all my comforts in present away,
Let all but the hope of your favour decay,
Rich in reversion Ile live as content,
As he to whom Fortune her sore-lock hath lent.

Was it a forme, a gate, a grace, 
Was it their sweetnes, meerely? 
Was it the Heav'n of a bright face, 
That made me love so deerly?

Was it a skin of silk and snow, 
That soule and sences wounded? 
Was't any of these, or all of these, 
Whereon my faith was founded? 

Ah no! 'twas a far deeper part 
Then all the rest that won me; 
'Twas a fair cloath'd, but feigning heart, 
I lov'd, and has undone me.

I have beene in Heav'n, I thinke, 
For I heard an Angell sing, 
Notes my thirsty ears did drinke, 
Never any earthly thing sung 
So true, so sweet, so cleere, 
I was then in Heav'n, not heere. 

But the blessed feele no change,
So I may mistake the place,
But mine eyes would think it strange
Should that be no Angels face;
Powr's above, it seems, designe
Me still Mortall, her Divine.

Till I tread the Milky way,
And I lose my sences quite,
All I wish is that I may
Hear that voice, and see that sight,
Then in types and outward show,
I shall have a heav'n below.

Tis not 'ith' pow'r of all thy scorne 
Or unrelenting bate, 
To quench my flames, or make them burne 
With heat more temperate: 
Still doe I struggle with dispaire, 
And ever court disdain; 
And though you ne're prove lesse severe, 
Ile doat upon my paine. 

Yet meaner beauties cannot claime
In Love this tyranny,
They must pretend an equall flame,
Or else our passions die:
You fair Clarinda you alone
Are priz'd at such a rate
To have a Votary of one
Whom you doe reprobate.

Let longing Lovers fit and pine, 
And the forsaken Willow wear, 
Love shall not blast this heart of mine, 
With ling'ring hope or killing feare: 
Ile never love till I injoy, 
Or lose my time on her that's coy. 

If Ladies call us to the field,
And all their colours there display,
Alasse, they needs must to us yeeld,
Since we are better arm'd then they;
Tis folly then to beg or whine
For us that are born Masculine.

Then Lovers learn your strength to know,
And you may overcome with ease,
Your enemy fights with a Bow
That cannot wound unlesse you please,
And he that pines because shee's coy,
Wants wit, or courage, women say.

Come Cloris, leave thy wandring sheep, 
Thou shalt more amorous creatures keep, 
And be the only envi'd dame, 
That moves upon this grassie frame: 
For thou shalt heards of Cupids have, 
And love and I will be thy slave. 

Nymphs, Satyrs, and the Sylvian Fawns,
Shall leave the woods and narrow Lawns,
To wait on Cloris, and adore
Their Cytherea, now no more
The name of Cloris shall create
A servitude in every state.

In yonder Mertill grove wee'le dwell
With more content then tongue can tell,
Where hungry Moules shall not afright
Thy tender Lambs, or thee by night:
There we the wanton theeves will play,
And steale each others hearts away.

When first I saw fair Doris eyes, 
Cheering like rising day our plains,
Not envying others wealthier flocks,
I thought my selfe the happiest swain.

More blessed yet when my rude eare
Heard her harmonious numbers flow,
No more swain, I felt the joys
Only victorious Princes know.

Since which alowd, on thy free lip
To story out my hopes, and love,
Immortal grown, I held aloft
The mansion of dethroned Jove.

But when rul'd by kinder starres,
Thy namelesse treasures crown my paine,
Jove and his empty joyes despis'd,
I Shepheard turn'd on earth again.
   Gods, take your own, sayd I, vain altars now,
   I chuse a happy fate with her below.

And is this all? what one poor kisse?
Thinkst thou my heart contented is
With this gratuity?

No Cloris, no: Or give me all,
That Lovers Love, and pleasure call
Or by a free and full deny, 
Permit me to despair, and so despairing die.

In vain fair Chloris, you designe, 
To be cruel, to be kind;
For we know with all your arts,
You never hold but willing hearts;
Men are too wise grown to expire 
With broken shafts, and painted fire.

And if among a thousand Swains, 
Some one of Love, or Fate complains;
And all the stars in heav'n defie, 
With Clora's lip, or Celia's eye:
'Tis not their love the Youth would chuse, 
But the glory to refuse. 

Then wisely make a prize of those 
Want wit, or courage to oppose;
But tempt me not that can discover 
What will redeems the fondest lover, 
And flie the list, let it appear 
Your pow'r is measur'd by our fear.

So the rude wave securely shocks, 
The yielding Bark, but stiff the rocks
If it attempt, how soon again 
Broke and dissolv'd it fills the Main:
It foams and roars, but we deride
Alike its weakness, and its pride. 

Come, my Lucasia, since we see 
   That miracles Mens Faith do move, 
By Wonder and by Prodigy: 
   To the fierce angry world let's prove, 
   There's a Religion in our Love. 

For though we were design'd t'agree,
   That Fate no Liberty destroys,
But our Election is as free
   As Angels, who with greedy choice
   Are yet determin'd to their Joys.

Our Hearts are doubled by their loss,
   Here mixture is Addition grown;
We both defuse, and both ingross:
   And we whose Minds are so much one,
   Never, yet ever are alone.

We court our own Captivity
   Then Thrones more great and innocent:
T'were Banishment to be set free,
   Since 
When we wear Fetters whose intent
   Not bondage is, but Ornament.

Divided Joys are tedious found,
   And Griefs united easier grow:
We are our selves but by rebound,
   And all our Titles shuffled so,
   Both Princes, and both Subjects too.

Our Hearts are mutual Victims laid,
   Which they (such Pow'r in friendship lies)
Are Altars, Priests, and Off'rings made:
   And each heart which thus kindly dies,
   Graces deathless by the Sacrifice.

Take heed fair Chloris, how you tame 
(With your disdain) Amintor's flame. 
A noble heart, when once delpis'd, 
Swels unto such a height of pride, 
'Twill rather burst then deigne to bee 
A worshipper of cruelty. 

You may use common shepherds so,
My flames at last to storms will grow,
And blow such scorn upon thy pride,
Will blast all I have magnifi'd:
You are not fair when Love you lack,
Ingratitude makes all things black.

O doe not for a flock of sheep,
A golden showr when as you sleep,
Or for the tales ambition tells,
Forsake the house wher honor dwels
In Damons palace you'l nee'r shine,
So bright as in these arms of mine.

But that I knew before we met, 
The howre would come that we must part, 
And so had fortifi'd my heart, 
I hardly could escape the net, 
My Passions for my Reason set. 

But why should Reason hope to win
A Victory that's so unkind,
And so unwelcome to my mind,
To yeeld is neyther shame nor sin.
Besieg'd without, betray'd within.

But Friends ne're part (to speak aright)
For who's but going is not gone;
Friends like the Sun must still move on,
And when they seem most out of sight,
Their absence makes at most but night?

And though that night be ne're so long,
In it they eyther sleep or wake,
And eyther way enjoyments take,
In Dreams or Visions which belong
Those to the old, these to the yong.

I'm old when going, gone 'tis night,
My Parting then shall be a Dreame,
And last till the auspicious Beame
Of our next meeting gives new light,
And the best Vision that's your sight.

Tell not me my Cælia's dead, 
And that (as she) our love is fled: 
Love (as the Soul) no change comes nigh, 
'Tis immortall, ne'r can die. 
Her love abides, though mounted high'r, 
(For flames ascending do'nt expire;) 
And my flame (like the light) 
Which does releeve the night 
Of the dark sepulchre, 
(Gilding the shadowes there) 
Shall ever wake and to my Cælia burn, 
Constant to the cold Marble, and the Urne.

Old Poets Hipocrin admire, 
And pray to water to inspire 
Their wit and Muse with heav'nly fire; 
Had they this heav'nly fountain seen, 
Sacke both their well and Muse had beene, 
And this pint-pot their Hipocrin.

Had they truly discoverd it
They had like me thought it unfit
To pray to water for their wit,
And had ador'd Sack as divine,
And made a Poet God of Wine,
And this pint-pot had been a shrine.

Sack unto them had been in stead
Of Nector, and their heav'nly bread,
And ev'ry boy a Ganimed;
Or had they made a God of it,
Or stil'd it patron of their wit,
This pot had been a temple fit.

Well then Companions is't not fit,
Since to this Jemme we ow our wit,
That we should prayse the Cabonet,
And drink a health to this divine
And bounteous pallace of our wine;
Die he with thirst that doth repine.

Love:
Weepe not, nor backward turne your beames, 
Fond eyes; sad sighes, locke in your breath, 
Lest on this winde, or in those streams, 
My griev'd soule flie, or saile to death, 
Fortune destroys me if I stay, 
Love kils me if I goe away; 
Since Love and Fortune both are blind, 
Come Reason and resolve my doubtfull mind.

Reason:

Fly, fly, and blind Fortune be thy guide, 
And gainst the blinder God rebell; 
Thy love sick heart shall not reside 
Where scorn and selfe-wild Error dwell, 
Where entrance unto truth is barr'd, 
Where love and faith finde no reward; 
For my just hand may sometimes move 
The wheele of Fortune, not the sphere of Love.

Chorus:

Fly, fly, and blind Fortune bee thy guide, 
And gainst the blinder God rebell, 
Thy love-sick heart shall not reside 
Where scorn and selfe-willd Error dwell.

Phillida:
Ah, Coridon, contentedly we tend 
Our bleating flocks, but think not of our end

Coridon:
Faire Phillida, our life that's innocent, 
Cannot be guilty of an ill event:

Phillida:
'Tis true, but yet me thinks diseas'd old age, 
Should make us weary of our pilgrimage:

Coridon:
Our age points to our end; in this we're blest, 
That after all our pains, w'are neer our rest.

Chorus:
In this w'are blest, that after all our pains, 
W'are neere our rest. 

Phillida:
But wher's our rest? must we not fight with death, 
And gainst him lose our life for neere our rest. want of breath;

Coridon:
Death hasts us to our graves, if well we die, 
We shall have heav'n in change for misery.

Chorus:
Then welcome death, obey our destiny, 
And change our frailty for eternity.

Amarillis:
Daphne, Shepheards if they knew 
Their happines would not be Kings;

Daphne:
Ther's nothing in the world more true 
Than that which Amarillis sings 

Amarillis:
Then Daphne tune thine Oaten Reed, 
And let us know this oncly strife, 
Whether thy Pipe or mine exceed 
In singing of a Shepheards life. 

Daphne:
Upon our huts of Turfe without 
The grasse within the Ivie's sprout, 
The hills yeeld sedge and rusnes store 
To thack the roose and strew the floore. 

Amarillis:
The angry Thistles shed 
Us Down to make our bed.

Daphne:
Lambkins bequeath us when they die, 
The blankets warm wherein we lie, 

Amarillis:
The morning sunne at sluggards blushes 

Daphne:
But lights us early through the bushes, 

Both:
Where Philomel amongst the Roses,
Her sweet, her sweet melody discloses;

Amarillis:
And whilest we wash our eyes and hands 
In basons of some Fountaine pure, 
With melting Notes poore heart shee stands, 
As if shee held the weeping Ewer.

Both:
Hence with devotion as we go 
T'unfold our flocks the fields we strow, 
Till pierced clouds th'impression feele, 
And tuft the Cushion where wee kneele.

Amarillis:
Then ope the grate of hayle wands 
Wherein our bleating Prisoners stand. 

Daphne:
The Wether Rings for joy his Bell.

Amarillis:
Whilst from their pound the Ewes doe bound 
At the sound of the merry peale. 

Daphne:
The pretty Lambe but new awake, 
Bridles in her pretty chin, 
And stretches out her curled back. 

Amarillis:
Nor are our pipes mute as they passe 
To nibble up the three leav'd grasse, 

Both:
And straine such rufts of greene as these, 
Into their into their milke and silver fleece, 

Amarillis:
When the high mountaines give no shade, 

Daphne:
The woods and fountains lend their ayd.

Amarillis:
Where harmles swains doe joine their mirth, 
Their bottles and their bags with ours, 

Daphne:
As on the table of the Earth 
Wee feast and sport it in the bowers

Amarillis:
Whil'st Phoebus rages, 
Pan asswages, 

Both:
To whose ayd we sing;

Daphne:
And when the heat 
Makes us retreat,

Both:
upon the Downs we make a Ring, 

Amarillis:
Then our fancies show in Dances. 

Daphne:
Change and chances 
Incident to every thing

Amarillis:
Then folde our flockes, 

Daphne:
And to our shed,

Both:
And with the Lambe 
Wee goe to bed.

Chorus:
Ye purple Robes, and Crowned heads, 
Upon this life the shepheard leads, 
Could you without ambition looke 
you'd change your Scepter, for his Crook.

Λέγουσιν αἱ γυναῖκες·
«Ἀνάκρεον, γέρων εἶ,
λαβὼν ἔσοπτρον ἄθρει
κόμας μὲν οὐκ ἔτ᾽ οὔσας,
ψιλὸν δέ σευ μέτωπον.»
ἐγὼ δὲ τὰς κόμας μέν,
εἴτ᾽ εἰσὶν εἴτ᾽ ἀπῆλθον,
οὐκ οἶδα· τοῦτο δ᾽ οἶδα,
ὡς τῷ γέροντι μᾶλλον
πρέπει τὸ τερπνὰ παίζειν,
ὅσῳ πέλας τὰ Μοίρης.

About the sweet bag of a bee
Two cupids fell at odds,
And whose the pretty prize should be
They vow'd to ask the gods.
Which Venus hearing, thither came,
And for their boldness stripp'd them,
And, taking thence from each his flame,
With rods of myrtle whipp'd them.
Which done, to still their wanton cries,
When quiet grown she'd seen them,
She kiss'd, and wip'd their dove-like eyes,
And gave the bag between them.

1st Grace:
Beauties, have ye seen a Toy,
Call'd Love, a little Boy,
Almost naked, wanton, blind;
Cruel now, and then as kind?
If he be amongst ye, say;
He is Venus Run-away.

2nd Grace:
She, that will but now discover
Where the winged Wag doth hover,
Shall, to Night, receive a Kiss,
How, or where her self would wish:
But, who brings him to his Mother,
Shall have that Kiss, and another.

3rd Grace:
Marks he hath about him plenty:
You shall know him among twenty.
All his body is a fire,
And his breath a flame entire,
That being shot, like lightning, in,
Wounds the heart, but not the skin.

 ... 

2nd Grace:
Wings he hath, which though ye clip,
He will leap from lip, to lip,
Over liver, lips, and heart,
But nee'r stay in any part;
And, if chance his arrow misses,
He will shoot himself, in kisses.

3rd Grace:
He doth bear a golden Bow,
And a Quiver, hanging low,
Full of Arrows, that out-brave
Dian's shafts: what, if he have
Any head more sharp than other,
With that kisse he strikes his Mother.

1st Grace:
Still the fairest are his fuel.
When his days are to be cruel,
Lovers hearts are all his food;
And his baths their warmest blood:
Nought but wounds his hand doth season;
And he hates none like to Reason.

2nd Grace:
Trust him not: his words, though sweet,
Seldom with his heart do meet.
All his practice is deceit;
Every gift it is a bait;
Not a kiss, but poyson bears;
And most treason in his tears.

3rd Grace:
Idle minutes are his raign;
Then, the Stragler makes his gain,
By presenting Maids with toys,
And would have ye think 'em joys:
'Tis the ambition of the Elf,
To have all childish, as himself.

1st Grace:
If by these ye please to know him,
Beauties, be not nice, but show him.

 ...