HUE AND CRY AFTER CUPID. BEAUTIES, have ye seen a toy,

Called Love; a little boy Almost naked, wanton, blind, Cruel now, and then as kind ? If he be ainong yo, say ; He is Venus' run-away. She that will but now discover Where the winged wag doth hover, Shall to-night receive a kiss, How and where herself would wish : But who brings him to his mother, Shall have that kiss, and another. Marks he hath about him plenty, You may know him among twenty: All his body is a fire, And his breath a flame entire: Which, being shot like lightning in, Wounds the heart, but not the skin. Wings he hath, which though ye clip, He will leap from lip to lip: Over liver, lights, and heart, Yet not stay in any part. And if chance his arrow misses, He will shoot himself in kisses. He doth bear a golden bow, And a quiver, hanging low, Full of arrows, which outbrave Dian's shafts, where, if he have Any head more sharp than other, With that first he strikes his mother. 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.

Trust him not; his words, though sweet,
Seldom with his heart do meet :
All his practice is deceit,
Every gift is but a bait:
Not a kiss but poison bears,
And most treason's in his tears.
Idle minutes are his reign,
Then the straggler makes his gain,
By presenting maids with toys,
And would have you think them joys :
'Tis th' ambition of the elf
To have all childish as himself.

If by these ye please to know him,
Beauties, be not nice, but shew him,
Though ye had a will to hide him :
Now, we hope ye'll pot abide him,
Since ye hear this falser's play,
And that he is Venus' run-away.

WILLIAM BROWN.

SONG. SHALL I tell you whom I love?

Hearken then a while to me:
And if such a woman move

As I now shall versifie,
Be assur'd 'tis she, or none,
That I love, and love alone.

Nature did her so much right,

As she scorns the help of art ; In as many virtues dight,

As e'er yet embraced a heart; So much good, so truly tried, Some for less were deified.

Wit she hath, without desire

To make known how much she hath: And her anger flames no higher

Than may fitly sweeten wrath.
Full of pity as may be,
Though, perhaps, not so to me.
Reason masters every sense,

And her virtues grace her birth;
Lovely as all excellence,

Modest in her most ot' mirth; Likelihood enough to prove Only worth could kindle love. Such she is; and if you know

Such a one as I have sung,
Be she brown, or fair, or so,

That she be but somewhile young ;
Be assur'd 'tis she, or none,
That I love, and love alone.

BEAUMONT and FLETCHER.

SONG

In the Nice Valour. HENCE all you vain delights,

As short as are the nights
Wherein you spend your folly ;
There's nought in this life sweet,
If men were wise to see't,

But only melancholy,
O sweetest melancholy !
Welcome folded arms and fixed eyes,
A sigh that, piercing, mortifies ;
A look that's fasten'd to the ground,
A tongue chain'd up without a sound.
Fountain-heads and pathless groves,
Places which pale passion loves;
Moonlight walks, when all the fowls
Are warmly hous'd, save bats and owls;
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.

SONG

In the Queen of Corinth.
WEEP no more, nor sigh, nor groan,

Sorrow recalls not time that's gone;
Violets pluck'd, the sweetest rain
Makes not fresh nor grow again;
Trim thy locks, look cheerfully,
Fate's hidden ends eyes cannot see ;
Joys, as winged dreams, fly fast,
Why should sadness longer last?
Grief is but a wound to woe,
Gentlest fair! mourn, mourn, no moe.

78

BEAU MONT AND FLETCHER.

SONG

In a Wife for a Month. LET those complain that feel love's cruelty,

And in their With roses gently he 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, Reck’ning 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?

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.