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They minde earthly things, but our conversation is in heaven.

Venus. Divine Cupid.
Venus:
What meanes this peevish Brat? Whish, Lullaby;
What ailes my Babe? What ayles my Babe to cry?
Will nothing still it? Will it neither be
Pleas'd with the Nurses brest nor Mothers knee?
What ayles my Bird? What moves my froward Boy
To make such whimpring faces? Peace, my Joy:
Will nothing doe? Come, come, this pettish Brat,
Thus cry and bawle, and cannot tell for what?
Come busse and friends, my lambe; whish, lullaby;
What ayles my Babe? What ayles my Babe to cry?
Peace, peace my deare; alas, thy early yeares
Had never faults to merit halfe these teares:
Come smile upon me: Let thy mother spie
Thy Fathers Image in her Babies eye:
Husband these guiltlesse drops against the rage
Of harder fortunes, and the gripes of Age;
Thine eye's not ripe for teares: whish, lullaby;
What ayles my Babe, mine sweet-fac'd Babe to cry?
Look, look, what's here! A dainty Golden thing:
See how the dauncing Bells turn round and ring
To please my Bantling! Here's a knack will breed
A hundred kisses: Here's a knack indeed!
So, now my bird is white, and looks as faire
As Pelops shoulder, or my milk white payre:
Here's right the Fathers smile, when Mars beguil'd
Sick Venus of her heart, just thus he smil'd.

Divine Cupid:
Well may they smile alike: Thy base-bred Boy
And his base Syre had both one Cause; A Boy:
How well their subjects and their smiles agree?
Thy Cupid finds a Toy, and Mars found thee:
False Queene of Beauty, Queene of false delights,
Thy knee presents an Embleme, that invites
Man to himselfe, whose selfe-transported heart
(Ov'rwhelm'd with native sorrowes, and the smart
Of purchas'd griefes) lies whining night and day,
Not knowing why, till heavy-heeld delay
The dull-brow'd Pander of despaire, layes by
His leaden Buskins, and presents his eye
With antick Trifles, which th'indulgent earth
Makes proper Objects of man's childish mirth:
These be the coyne that passe; the sweets that please;
There's nothing good, there's nothing great but these:
These be the Pipes that base-borne minds daunce after,
And turne immod'rate teares to lavish laughter;
Whilst heav'nly Raptures passe without regard;
Their Strings are harsh, and their high straines unheard:
The ploughmans Whistle, or the triviall Flute
Find more respect than great Apollo's Lute:
Wee'l look to heav'n, and trust to higher Joyes;
Let Swine love Husks, and children whine for Toyes.

S. BERN.

That is the true and chiefe joy, which is not conceived from the creature, but received from its Creator; which (being once possest therof) none can take from thee, whereto all pleasure being compared, is torment; all joy is griefe: sweet things are bitter, all glory is basenesse, and all delectable things are despicable.

S. BERN.

Joy in a changeable subject must necessarily change as the subject changes.