Amanda :: :: University of Virginia Library

Beauty is Nature's, and the Woman's glory,
The loudest Emphasis in the story
Of female worth and praise, the Alphabet
Where love doth spell it's first desire,
The field where red and white are met
To mingle wonder; 'tis the match,
The spark and tinder, which doth quickly catch
And light the fire
O'th' lamp of love,
Which flames within the eyes
Of those who towards Cupids Altar move
To offer up their hearts in sacrifice.

2

Beautie's an honest kinde of sorcerie
It hath a sweet bewitching facultie;

It is the sauce doth tempt loves appetite,
Which to intemperance it doth oft incite,
Till it provoke a lustful gluttonie
Beyond the satisfaction of the eye;
Love is but Beauties creature,
It hath its being from its Makers feature;
'Tis Beautie deifies
The goddesse Woman,
She whom we now so idolize;
Without it, would be ador'd by no man.

3

Beautie is Magick works by qualities
Are lesse occult, how it doth charme the eyes
Is visible, but ne're enough: for still
The more 'tis seen and view'd, more lovely 'twill
Appear, and tempt with stronger Argument
Then the first glances rais'd, i'th' cast
Of punie thoughts and fancies, till at last
It breeds a discontent
I'th' other senses, which all mutinie,
(Starv'd in the surfet of the eye)
To share in its delight,
And never lin
Till they are slain, or fairely win
The place where Beauties flags to love invite.

4

Both eyes were made for Beautie purposely,
The most delightful object we can see,
'Tis that gilds Cupid's wings, and makes the boy
Be entertain'd with extasies of joy;

'Tis the best kinde of Natures handicraft,
Her choicest piece of pencil-work, her draft
In colours to the life, suppose
The spotlesse lilie and the rose,
Should blend their damask and their snow,
The mixture which doth flow
From their embrace,
Is Beauty in its pride and state,
Which (ne're till then) I spi'd of late
In the rare features of Amanda's face.

LOVE.

1

Love is that harmony doth sympathize
Betwixt two soules tun'd Diapason-wise;
'Tis waking mans most pleasant dream, delight
And comfort, makes day passe as sleep doth night,
'Tis the best part of Heav'n man hath on earth,
And heav'n in heav'n 'twill be
Nothing but lovely, loving souls to see
Souls mingling loves, love getting love i'th' birth.

2

Love is the Gordian knot, which once unti'd
Or cut, gives way to th' Tyrant Victors pride,
'Tis honest Cupid's Atlas of the world;

Into a Chaos all things would be hurl'd,
Were't not for love, the peoples hate
Or love, make or undo
The best of Kings and Kingdomes too:
Love is the moving sinew of the State.

3

Where it is absent, nothing present is,
But envie, hatred, malice, jealousies,
Deceit and basenesse, whence are alwayes born
Horrour and anguish, grief, despight and scorn,
Mischief, revenge and wrath, which do torment,
Distract and teare the heart,
Gripe, and unhinge the man in ev'ry part,
Till all his bowels burst, and life be spent.

4

Love is our Empresse, all that beauteous be
Are maids of Honour to her Majestie,
Yet Love to Beauty often Presents brings,
Presented by the hands o'th' greatest King;
And 'tis no wonder Love this course doth take,
That th' Mistris thus should fee
Her maids, 'tis pretty ridling Usurie,
For Love bribes Love, for Love and Beauties sake.

5

Love is our Governesse, me thinks on high
I see her, greatest goddesse in the skie,
Sitting and holding all in chaines; I see
She labours hard, that all things joyn'd may be
To their most proper objects; but base spight,
Her black Antagonist,

By man and th' devils help, whom e're she list,
Forces to deeds of discord, sinne and night.

6

Love is mans health and food, a wealthie feast
Where Beautie oft hath made great Jove her guest,
Then my Dear, fairer then the fairest she,
Amanda shall be courted by Divinity,
If in her sacred love she prove devout,
With all the viand-joyes that be
In Love, she shall be fed eternally,
Angels themselves shall set the banquet out.

Against Platonick Court-Love.

1

No greater comfort to well-minded men,
Then 'tis to love and be belov'd agen:
And this sweet love hath goodnesse for its mother,
On which one love doth still beget another;
Though beautie nourish love, and make it grow,
Love feeds on other food,
Which is as pleasant, and as highly good;
From other richer sweeter springs doth flow.

2

Love several cells i'th' wombe, and Cradles hath,
To breed and rock, it's Cupids in; the path
Wherein, with close desire it doth pursue,
The started object may be divers too;

But who the same hare chase, their loves do hit,
And ever meet in this:
What e're their feigned speech and progresse is,
All i'th' same sent do hunt and follow it.

3

Loves of one rise, ne're differ in their end,
What ever Lovers in their love pretend,
Making blinde Cupid nothing else but eye,
'Tis counterfeit, false, cheating modestie,
Whil'st superficial beauty strikes the eyes
The Consort heart-strings move,
And play, within a tempting fit of love
To ev'ry sense; love it self multiplies.

4

'Tis of a spreading nature, not content
To be at stands, till all its strength be spent;
It is a pleasant itch, infects the blood,
Still gathers heat, whilst it receives its food;
It cannot rest i'th' eye, the senses do
Mingle joyes, what e're we see
And like, if sweet and edible it be,
Surely, we have some minde to eate it too.

5

'Tis true, I know sometimes we use to play,
With fruit that's pleasing to the eye, and say,
'Tis pittie troth to eat them, they're so faire,
So often keep them till they rotten are,
Yet the teeth water while they rotting lie;
But love provides for you

To eat your apple and have it too:
Cloy th'appetite, and after feast your eye.

6

Is Admiration love? 'tis nothing so,
'Tis but loves Herauld, which before doth go
To usher in that Regent Queen to th'heart,
Its Palace-royal; only acts the part
Of loves Scenographer, to pitch the tent
In that Elysian field,
Where it encamps; the Ensigne who doth wield
And flourish beauties flags of ornament.

7

Platonick love! 'tis monstrous heresie,
Would scare an Adamite, in's innocencie:
No Eunuch holds it, but where e're he likes
And loves the bait, at least in wish he strikes;
And curses him that blanch't him so; the Nun
When she can please her eye,
Though her vow curb her thoughts, yet happily
She wishes all that might be done, were done.

8

Platonick love. if love it call'd may be,
Is nothing else but lust in 'ts infancie;
Lust in the wombe of thought, which stayes not there,
(If thought miscarry not through startling fear,)
But comes abroad and lives, doth act and move
To reach its centre-end;
And in the birth, (both which the childe commend,)
Fancie is Midwife, Beauty Nurse to Love.

9

Love only plac't in Admiration!
Complacencie in Contemplation!
Love and no Cupid! It can never be,
To fancie beautie is thoughts venerie:
'Tis new-borne childish lust, which puling lies,
Like th' babe more innocent
I'th' Cradle then the standing stool, where pent
It gads, and at each pleasing object flies.

10

Love flowes like time, our motions cause and measure;
What's past is lost; the life of all our pleasure,
Is in our present instant joy; but yet
As thoughts of past injoyments do beget
New hopes, and those new hopes get new desire,
Which differs not, but is all one
With lustful love and fond devotion,
So last nights sparks kindle the morning fire.

11

Nor doth a glance only a glance beget,
One lookes gets love, the next doth nourish it,
And so the next, and next, and th' other doth,
Till it attain and rise to 'ts perfect growth:
I must confesse love may be starv'd, or fed
With dazie roots or so,
But let it take its course, 'twill surely grow
To flames, and though't must lose its maiden-head.

12

If beauty do but once inslave the eyes,
It straight takes captive all the faculties;

The Soul invites the senses to a feast,
Wishing the object would allow each guest
The dish it liketh most, it would employ
(If nothing hinder from without)
Contrive, and lay its utmostpowers out
T' enrich it selfe with loves most wealthie joy.

13

Affection is not fed to please one sense,
'Tis ne're maintained at so high expence
Of spirits, to so small and poor intents,
As t' have a thing to please with complements:
In such love-masques, what e're we speak or do,
Surely there is some promise made
[Which hopes and fancie easily perswade]
That we shall please our other senses too.

14

That love Camelion-like can live by aire
Of womens breath, without some better fare;
That man can love, and yet confine his blisse
To th' outside kickshaw pleasure of a kisse,
Nay, be surpriz'd with such thin joyes as these,
And like them too; yet wish no more,
Platonick love! Say Plato kept a whore,
And lost his smell-smock nose by th' French disease.

15

Well my Amanda, 'tis no glance o'th eye
I court thee for, that will not satisfie;
'Tis not the pretty babies there I praise,
As if to love were nothing but to gaze;
No, guesse the best; that love what e're it be

Chaste, lawful, clean, sincere,
And without smoke, if it be any where;
'Tis, 'tis Amanda betwixt thee and me.

A Mistris.

A Mistris is not what the fancie makes her,
But what her vertue and her beautie speaks her;
She is a jewel; which a rich esteem
Values below its worth, she doth not deem
Each servant mad in love, but reconciles
Their feares and hopes, she only smiles
When others laugh and giggle; her lips severe
And close, as if each kisse a promise were:
Fresh as the blossomes of the Apple-tree,
Sweet in the perfumes of Virginitie:
She puts a price on love; not proudly coy,
But modest in returnes; the life of joy
Which she conceives, i'th'thought o'th' nuptial bed,
Is not the losing of her Maiden-head,
Or some such ticklish point, but to unite
And knit her Bridegrooms soul in the delight
Of a close twine, and when their lips do greet,
She mingles flesh, that heart with heart may meet,
She's wary in her gift and choice, but yet
Like an enchanted Lady doth not set,
Making her Lover a green-armour-Knight

In a Romance-adventure, who must fight
With monstrous giants, and with conqu'ring hand
Win her from a fantastick-fairie-land;
No she's discreetly chaste, not fond of love,
Nor cruel in her frownes; her heart doth move,
Poys'd with her servants worth, and the advice
Of her good friends; she's neither cold as ice,
Nor yet inflam'd; she's neat and delicate,
Yet not lascivious in her dresse; her gate
Tempting, yet not affected, it hath more
Of nature then the dance; her cast o'th' eye
Is amorous, yet not a glance doth flie,
That hath a sparkle of lust; she's all divine,
And to be courted like a Cherubin:
Such is Amanda, who deserves to be
Mistris in Cupids Universitie.

In praise of Amanda's beautie.

The daring and most learned Grotius Writ;
(I must not venture, though to credit it,)
The book of Canticles was made in love:
Love to some tempting beauty, which did move,
Turne and command the wisest Solomons heart,
Forcing a King to play the Courtiers part:
The little foxes which so much displease,
In spoiling of his Vine, are little fleas,

Rude fleas which still leave freckles, where they stood
To suck the Nectar of a Ladies blood:

But who soe're that royal creature were,
Compar'd to all that's good beyond compare,
To whom that Prince the Song of Songs did sing,
Though to the daughter of th' Egyptian King,
Or some more lovely am'rous Concubine,
My faire Amanda who is more divine,
Can make me if my heart she breath upon,
Court her beyond the Critick's Solomon.

His love to Amanda.

There 's nought like love that pleaseth me,
Love, love, Amanda, love to thee:
My fancie hath no other theam,
Nor while I wake, nor while I dream;
Not gold, that's made a god by men;
Not gold, which makes men gods agen;
Gold which makes men most sordidly,
To Mules and Asses bend the knee;
Not Honour Glory, or Renown,
To have my name flie up and down:
No title of Worship pleaseth me,
'Tis every Beggars briberie;
I nothing will commit to Fame,
Only my dear Amanda's name;
I only care to live with thee,

To live without thee death 'twill be:
I envie not the Heirs delight,
The hound in's course, the hawke in's flight
Love playes a better game with me,
I alwayes hawke and hunt for thee;
I ne're frequent the bowling green,
In those mad antick postures seen,
Where in their bowles men court and pray,
And curse and swear their time away:
On what designe so e're I go,
Whatever bowle it be I throw,
Amanda's hand doth bias it,
She is the Mistris I would hit:
If with thy voice thou blesse my eare,
May I no other Musick hear;
I'le never drink one drop of wine,
May I but sip those lips of thine;
I'le never go abroad to feast:
Oh that I were thy constant guest!
How gladly would I make on you,
My breakfast and my Beaver too!
On thee i'd alwayes dine and sup,
Oh I could almost eate thee up!
All night on thee might I be fed,
I supperlesse would go to bed:
Thy sweetest flesh if I might taste,
'Fore such a feast who would not fast?
No greater pleasure can I seek,
Then 'tis to kisse thy blushing cheek:
No further joy will I demand,

Then 'tis to touch thy lilie hand;
My heart so lively ne're doth move,
As when I heare thee call me love;
No flowers pleasant are to me,
But roses which do smell of thee:
The primrose and the violet,
Which from thy brest their odours get;
No rich delights can please my eyes,
With all their colour'd rarities;
But those that represent my Faire,
Such as the matchlesse tulips are,
Where Beautie's flourish't flags invite,
I'th' purest streames of red and white.

Here, here, Amanda, take my heart,
There's my soul where e're thou art:
I'le be thy Monarch, thou to me
A Kingdom and a Queen shalt be:
I'le be the Elme, and thou the Vine
About me close shall twist and twine;
And whil'st my Dear like th' Ivie cleaves,
The Oak shall bend to kisse her leaves;
I'le be thy Landlord, and content,
My body be thy tenement;
I'le be thy Landlord, and consent
That thou with kisses pay me rent;
Then shall I kisse thee o're and o're,
And daily raise my rent the more:

'Tis thee, my Dear, I love alone,
No beautie drawes me but thine own;
I ne're shall see, I ne're shall finde

Another so much to my minde;
Should I pick, and chuse, and cull,
Amongst a whole Seraglio full:
There's nought like love that pleaseth me,
Love, love, Amanda, love to thee.

To Amanda doubting her mortality.

I cannot be an Atheist in my love;
And as the dull Cretenses did for Jove,
Build thee a Sepulchre, no, goddesse, no;
I nee're shall weeping to thy grave-stone go,
And beg thy lovely ghost, to represent
To one short glance thy beautie's monument;
Nor haunt the melancholy tombes, to try
If my strong fancie can possesse my eye,
With a blest shadow, like to thee my Faire,
Drawing thy portraicture and shape i'th' aire;
Then gaze and wonder till my soul desert
Its trembling dust, and where thou never wert,
Flie t' an imbrace; then look so long about,
To finde my fancies vanish't Consort out;
Till my unruly Atomes dispossesse
The Agent spirits of their Governesse;
And me to marble feare do petrifie,
Leaving my hand to write thy Elegie:

No, these are dreams fit for an Infidel,
Whose saucie reason doth 'gainst faith rebel;

I'm better taught, and with an Eagles eye,
Admit the rayes of thy Divinity;
Diana bathes her in the purer Springs
Of thy chaste blood; and when Amanda sings,
My greedy eares let chanting Angels in,
And each notes Eccho calls thee Cherubin:
Even at noon, thy blushing modestie
Calls up Aurora; Canst thou mortal be?
Then Venus and the graces too must die,
For they're confin'd, and live within thine eye.

A Sacrifice to Amanda.

1

I have an eye for her that's fair,
An eare for her that sings,
Yet don't I care
For golden haire,
I scorne the portion lech'ry brings,
To baudy beautie I'm a churle,
And hate though a melodious girle
Her that is nought but aire.

2

I have a heart for her that's kinde,
A lip for her that smiles;
But if her minde
Be like the winde,
I'd rather foot it twenty miles,

Then kisse a lasse whose moisture reeks,
Lest in her clammie glew-pie cheeks
I leave my beard behinde.

3

Is thy voice mellow, is it smart?
Art Venus for thy beautie?
If kinde and tart,
And chaste thou art,
Then am I bound to do thee dutie:
Though pretty Mal, or bonnie Kate,
Hast thou one haire adulterate,
I'm blinde, and deaf, and out of heart.

4

Amanda, thou art faire, well-bred,
Harmonious, sweetly kinde;
If thou wilt wed
My Virgin-bed,
And taste my love, thou 'rt to my minde;
Take hands, lips, heart and eyes,
All are too mean a sacrifice
To th' Altar of thy maiden-head.

To Amanda putting flowers in her bosome.

Tis not the pinck I gaze upon,
Nor th' pleasant Cowslip I look on;
No nor the lovely violet,
Shutting its purple Cabinet:

Nor the white lilie now and then,
For envie looking pale and wan.
Nor th' ruddie scarlet damask rose,
Like thy lips where Coral growes;
Nor th' yellow Caltha, whose fair leaves,
From thy bright beauty day receives;
That gilt Sunne-dial which doth catch
And hug the Sun-beames, Natures watch,
Which by its strange horoscopie,
To the working whispering Bee,
What time of day 'twas once did tell,
Now-like the pretty Pimpernel,
When shut, when open it shall lie,
Takes its direction from thine eye:
No nor the primrose, though it be
Modest, and simper too like thee:
Which gladly spoiled of its balme,
Ravish't this morning in its bed,
Bequeath's thy hand its maiden-head.

No, but the rarest of the bower,
Leap-up-come-kisse me, is the flower;
I look to see how that lookes proud
Made in thy bosome Cupids shroud,
Then whil'st you there those flowers strow,
My love doth in Procession go;
Cupid awakes, and is not dead,
His shroud's a garland on his head;
Thou'dst make a posie fit for me,
Oh that my hand might gather thee.

Or could those flowers leave me when they die,
Those sweeter flower-pots a legacie.

To Amanda over-hearing her Sing.

Heark to the changes of the trembling aire!
What Nightingals do play in consort there!
See in the clouds the Cherubs listen you,
Each Angel with an Otocousticon!
He ark how she shakes the palsie element,
Dwells on that note, as if 'twould ne'er be spent!
What a sweet fall was there! how she catch't in!
That parting aire, and ran it o're agen!
In emulation of that dying breath,
Linnets would straine and sing themselves to death;
Once more to hear that melting Eccho move,
Narcissus-like, who would not die in love!

Sing on sweet Chauntresse soul of melodie;
Closely attentive to thy harmonie:
The Heavens check't and stop't their rumbling spheres,
And all the world turn'd it self into eares;
But if in silence thy face once appear,
With all those jewels which are treasur'd there,
And shew that beautie which so farre out-vies
Thy voice; 'twill quickly change its eares for eyes.

To Amanda Reading.

What Book or subject, Fairest, can it be,
Which can instruct, delight or pleasure thee?
Poems! Kisse me but once and I'le out-vie
The Authors Master-piece of Poetrie;
And rather then not win and please thee in't,
All the nine Muses shall be drest in print;
I'le quaffe Pyrene off, and write a line
Shall charm Amanda's heart, and make her mine,
I'le drink a Helicon of sack to thee,
And fox thy sense wich Lovers stuponie.

Reade on my Fairest, I am reading too,
A better book, my Dear, I'm reading you;
A fine neat volume, and full fraught with wit,
The womans best Encomium e're was writ;
Off of my book I never cast my eye,
A Scholar I shall be most certainly;
Nay, who so er'e derives his learning hence,
Doctor of Civil Court-ship may commence;
For who (my pretty Fancie) reades but thee,
Reades o're a whole Vatican Librarie
Of womans worth, most women in compare
But Ballads, Pamphlets and Diurnals are:
The life and beauty of Art and Learning is
I'th' very Preface and the Frontispice;
If in my Study reade thee o're I might,

Oh I could con my lesson day and night;
I and my book in all things treat of thee,
Then prethy dedicate thy book to me;
Make me the binding to't, I only plead
I may be cover to the book I read.

On these my lines if e're thou chance to look,
Reade me, Amanda, when thou read'st my book;
If in the print there any errours be,
Accuse the carelesse Presse, and blame not me.

To Amanda leaving him alone.

What businesse calls thee hence, and calls not me?
My businesse ever is to wait on thee;
Therefore where e're you go
I must go too
What e're your businesse is,
Bee't that or this:
Yet still my businesse is to wait on you;
Nay prethy, my Dearest, why
So coy and shie?
Yes, yes, you'l come agen,
But prethy when?
Here must I moap alone;
Whil'st you some other love,
Or in your Cabinet above,
Some letters doat upon,
Which teach you how to say me nay;

But know, Amanda, if too long you stay,
My soul shall vanish into aire,
And haunt and dodge thee ev'ry where.
'Tis fit when thou tak'st Heav'n from me,
Thou take at least my soul with thee.

A melancholly Fit.

Sad newes was sent me that a friend was dead,
It dash't my braines, and my dull heavy head,
Drowsie with thoughts of death, could hardly be
Supported in its doleful agonie;
Nature was lost, grief stop't, my circling blood,
All things alike were ill, and nothing good;
Awak't I dream't, then round about I saw
Death sable Curtains of confusion draw;
All things were black where e're I cast my eye,
The wainscot walls mourn'd in dark Ebonie,
My giddy fancie into th' earth did sink,
I wept, and saw the clouds weep teares of ink;
Ruine and death me thoughts were penitent,
And did in sheets and vailes their sinnes lament:
Then ghosts and shades in mourning did I see,
All threw deaths-heads, and dead mens bones at me;
But when the pale Idæa of my friend
Past by, I wish't my life were at an end;
And courting-night to shut my sullen eyes,
In came Amanda, and did me surprise;

Taught me to live in death, kist me, and then
Out of a Chaos made me man agen.

An Enthusiasm to Amanda feasting.

Come fill a glasse with the best blood o'th' Vine,
Troth it looks well; 'tis a fresh vaulting wine:
A perfum'd Nectar, yet beyond compare,
Amanda's lips more brisk and lively are;
See, see, here's pretty Hebe brings from Jove
A golden Cup fill'd to the brims in love!
Amongst the tipling gods, me thinks I see
Blithe purple-fac't Augustus drink to thee:
Come, ye immortal Feasters, quaffe it round,
With heads in stead of hats flung to the ground;
Lay down your godheads in idolatrie,
Turne Priests to my Amanda's Deity;
Ne'er fear to stoop and change your selves to men,
Amanda can create you gods agen.

To Amanda pledging him.

How the wine smiles, and as she sips,
Tempts her most sweet, coy, modest lips!
The Claret friskes, and faine it woo'd
Help its pale colour in her blood,

And mingling spirits hopes to be
Within her veines immortallie;

I envie it perhaps for ever,
It may dwell within her liver;
Howe're 'twill be conveighed at least
Through the chaste cloysters of thy breast,
And entertain'd before it part,
In both the chambers of thy heart;
Oh might I too obtaine my Faire,
Such friendly entertainment there:
Most happy man then should I be,
As thy heart-blood is dear to thee.

To Amanda drinking to him.

A better Cordial Heaven cannot give,
Sprinkle a dead man with't, 'twill make him live;
And force the soul, hudling its atomes up
To a retreat only to kisse the Cup;
'Tis a soul-saving kindnesse, can recal
Love to a frolick in its Funeral:
My heart shall ne'er be sad more through despair,
I feel a world of Heavens created there;
I conceive swarmes of Cupids newly born,
To which Amanda's Midwife; I'le be sworn,
My flesh turnes all to Cupids; here, and there
How I engender Cupids ev'ry where!
Still I teem Cupid's; Cupids chaste and pure,

I shall be eaten up with Cupids sure;
On my chap't heart I feel them creep about,
Like Emmets at their crannies in and out;
More and more Cupids still are borne anew,
And all these Cupids are begot on you;
You are their Mother-nurse; Dear, prethy then
Drink to thy Dearest once agen.
Then I'le be all o're Cupids, my best blood
Shall be their drink, my heart their chiefest food;
Cupids shall eate me whil'st thou drink'st to me.
Eate whil'st I pledge thee too; who would not be
Meat for such pretty loving wormes my Faire,
Such loving wormes as these sweet Cupids are?
Whil'st me their feast these wormes, these Cupids have,
Amanda shall interre me, she's my grave.

To Amanda not drinking off her wine.

1

Pish, modest tipler, to't agen
My sweetest joy,
The wine's not coy
As women are;
My Dearest puling, prethie then,
Prethie, My Faire,
Once more bedew those lips of thine,
Mend thy draught, and mend the wine.

2

Since it hath tasted of thy lip,
(Too quickly cloy'd)
How overjoy'd,
It cheerfully
Invites thee to another sip!
Me thinks I see
(The wine perfum'd by thee, my Faire,)
Bacchus himself is dabling there.

3

Once more, dear soul, nay prethy trie;
Bathe that cherrie
In the sherry;
The jocant wine,
Which sweetly smiles and courts thy eye,
As more divine.
Though thou take none to drink to me,
Takes pleasure to be drunk by thee.

4

Nay, my Fair, off with't, off with't clean;
Well I perceive
Why this you leave,
My love reveales,
And makes me guess what 'tis you mean,
Because at meales
My lips are kept from kissing thee,
Thou need'st must kisse the glasse to me.

To Amanda upon her smile.

Now in the joy of strength me thinks I finde
Armies of pleasures, troop and storme my mind!
How with a Giants armes I could embrace,
And closely clasp my sweet she Boniface!
Amanda gave a pleasant glance, and while
Her flowrie lips bloom'd in the modest smile,
Winter withdrew, I felt a forward spring,
As when great Birtha doth Elixir bring,
To drench the boughs, which by her Chymistrie,
Mantles i'th' blossomes of the Apple-tree,
Stil'd from the cloysters of the spungie earth;
Dead drunk I was, and all embalm'd in mirth;
Heaven past through my soul; th' Elysian fields,
Are but meer shadowes of the joy it yields:
My heart-strings move in tune, to its Almains
My panting breast keeps time; through all my veins,
Bubling in wantonness, now here, now there,
My fresh blood frisks in circles every where:
Thus in the Court the fawning Favourite,
When from the King his Master he can get
One pleasing look with vigour tuggs and hales,
Hope and Ambition hoist his full-cheek't sailes,
Top and top-gallant-wise, worth or no worth,
Into preferments Ocean lancheth forth.
Thus the blithe Merchant, when with even train,

His wealthie vessel glides through th' marble main
Hugs his good fortune, and begins to sport,
While Neptune kindly laughs him to the Port,
Propitious lights which at my birth did shine!
My starres speak dotage in this smile of thine.

On Amanda his friend, desiring him to fall to

1

A thousand thanks, good Sir, thanks for you cheer
And this good signe of welcome to your feast;
If you observe your guest,
How heartily he feeds
On these delicious viands here:
You'l finde his love no invitation needs,
Beleeve me, Sir, I do not spare.

2

I am all appetite, my hungry minde
Feeds almost to a surfeit on desire,
This dish 'tis I admire,
No cates so sweet as these;
Here, here, I feed, here I am pin'd;
And starv'd with meat, these juncates only please,
Hither my senses are confin'd.

3

Here's my rich banquet, hither the little lad

Cupid invites; in sugar here are store,
Of sweet meats candid o're,
From those faire lips I see
What choice of Conserves may be had,
The modest cherrie and the barberrie,
The best and sweetest marmalade.

4

Here I can taste the grape and mulberrie,
No blush of fruits (though served in they are
In pure white China ware)
Is like those cheeks of thine,
Where the freshest straw-berries be,
Most finely tipled in brisk Claret-wine,
Me thinks they seem to swim to me.

5

Beauty in stead of tempting sauce doth wooe,
Love feeds my heart, love feeds my eyes,
I for no rarities
Of quailes and phesants wish
(Sir, I am well-com'd well by you)
Amanda is my first and second dish:
Would she would make me well-come too.

To Amanda desirous to go to bed.

Sleepie, my Dear? yes, yes, I see
Morpheus is fall'n in love with thee,
Morpheus, my worst of rivals, tries

To draw the Curtains of thine eyes;
And fanns them with his wing asleep,
Makes drowsie love play at bopeep;
How prettily his feathers blow,
Those fleshie shuttings to and fro!
Oh how he makes me Tantalize
With those faire Apples of thine eyes!
Equivocates and cheats me still,
Opening and shutting at his will;
Now both now one, the doting god
Playes with thine eyes at even and odde;
My stamm'ring tongue doubts which it might
Bid thee good-morrow or good-night;
So thy eyes twinkle brighter farre,
Then the bright trembling, ev'ning starre;
So a waxe taper burnt within
The socket playes at out and in:

Thus doth Morpheus court thine eye,
Meaning there all night to lie;
Cupid and he play hoop-all hid,
Thy eye's their bed and cover-lid;

Fairest, let me thy night-clothes aire,
Come I'le unlace thy stomacher;
Make me thy maiden-chamber-man,
Or let me be thy warming-pan;
Oh that I may but lay my head
At thy beds feet i'th' trundle-bed;
Then i'th' morning e're I rose
I'd kisse thy pretty pettitoes.
Those smaller feet, with which i'th' day

My love so neatly trips away:

Since you I must not wait upon,
Most modest Lady, I'le be gone,
And though I cannot sleep with thee,
Oh may my dearest dream of me,
All the night long dream that we move
To the main centre of our love;
And if I chance to dream of thee,
Oh may I dream eternallie:
Dream that we freely act and play,
Those postures which we dream by day,
Spending our thoughts i th' best delight.
Chaste dreams allow of in the night.

To Amanda igoing to Prayer.

Stay, stay, Amanda, take a wish from me,
And blesse a cushion with thy softer knee;
Whither are all those Virgin-Angels gone,
Who strew their wings, for thee to kneel upon,
Those pretty pinion'd boyes, fat, plump and faire,
Who joy to be the Ecchoes of thy prayer.
Those golden Cupids fall'n in love with thee
Thy little Nuncioes to thy Deitie.

Prethy, Amanda, Dearest, prethy stay,
The Cushion, wench, where art? come bring't away
You use your Mistris kindly; here, my love,
Come kneel upon't, and kneel to none but Jove:

What o'th' bare boards! no sure it cannot be,
Look how they sink, and will not touch thy knee;
They dare not sinne so farre (my Dear) to presse
That flesh, and make it know their stubbornnesse,
Were there no bones within, thou should'st command
Under each tender knee thy lover's hand;
Nay, my Amanda, take my better part,
And at thy prayers kneel upon my heart.

On Amanda praying.

Amanda kneel'd, I straight a Canopie
Of Saints and Angels o're her head did see;
Amanda pray'd, and all the Spheres stood still,
The Heavens bow'd, and stoop't to know her will:
She pray'd with Zeal, and then the chanting quires
Of Cherubs, list'ning to her chaste desires,
Stop't their sweet Anthems; still Amanda pray'd;
Then on her bosome her pure hand she laid,
Call'd for her heart, and lifting up her eyes,
Turned her prayer into sacrifice;
Her heart was fix't, She more and more devout,
Did sob and groan as if she'd sigh it out;
At length she wept, but could not shed a tear
To wash her cheeks, or th' roses that grew there,
Fine, pretty lads came thick about her still,
Their Crystal bottles at her eyes to fill;

Some lodg'd upon her lips, all as they passe,
Hover, and make her eye their Looking-glasse;
Some set upon her cheeks, hard by the springs,
Her blush reflecting on their golden wings,
Some on her eye-lids sate, so greedy were,
They spoil'd the pearle, and snatch't at half a tear:

At last she ended all in giving praise,
Her head was sainted with a crown of rayes,
Then I no longer could Spectator be,
Amanda's glory had so dazled me;
But then I heard all Heaven cry Amen,
And pray, and sing her prayers o're agen.

To Amanda after her Prayers.

What watrie still with reliques of a tear?
Oh prethie let me kisse them dry, my Dear.
Religious fountains which still delug'd stand,
Where Infant-Angels wade it hand in hand!
What still bedew'd? sure yet remaining there
Some of those pretty tankard-bearers are,
Thy late Attendant at thy sacrifice,
Yes, yes, I see those babies in thine eyes,
Those yellow-winged Fairies in thy well
Till thou shalt pray agen intend to dwell,
Earnest expectants for a tear to fall,
They make within thine eyes a water-gall.

Amanda pray'd, I saw the Angels flie

To hear her lectures of Divinity,
And when my Fairest held up those hands of hers,
Thousands of sweet celestial Choristers
Danc't on each fingers end, delighting there
To fanne themselves in the perfumed aire
Of my Amanda's breath, swarm'd at her lip,
As Bees o're flowers, where they Nectar sip,
Then some did on her silver bosome rest,
Pruning their golden feathers in her breast,
And when my Dearest sang Te Deum out,
Th' Intelligences twirl'd the Orbes about,
But when she chanted her Magnificat,
The Angels then first learn't to imitate.

Yes, yes, thy prayer alwayes so pithie is;
So full of holy Zeale and emphasis,
So fraught with Hallelujahs it might be,
Heavens Laudamus, and mans Letanie,
Prethie, my Dearest, since with greatest Jove,
Thy prayers are so prevalent above:
I'm now thy subject, once thy Prince may be,
Pray for thy Prince, Amanda, pray for me.

To Amanda undressing her.

Thy hood's pull'd off, nay then I'm dead and gone,
Prethie, Amanda, put thy night-coif on.
I see a thousand am'rous Cupids there.

Which lie in Ambush, lurking in thy haire;
Look with what haste within those locks of thine,
They string their bowes to shoot these eyes of mine?
Look how that little blinde rogue there with his dart,
Stands aiming and layes level at my heart?
The symptomes of my wounds, Amanda, see,
Oh I bleed inwards, prethie pitty me.
I am all stuck with arrowes which are shot
So thick and fast, that there is ne'er a spot
About me free, each distinct atome smarts
By't selfe, pierc't with a thousand thousand darts;
And as a man with pangs surpriz'd by death
Struggles for life to keep his parting breath;
My nerves and sinews stretch, and all within
My body earne to graspe and reach thee in;
How could I knit and weave eternally,
And mingle limbs into a Gordian tie?]
Shoot on, sweet Archers, till I'm slain with love,
Then like the bedlam who in's talk doth prove
What made him mad, my happy blessed ghost
Of this nights vision shall for ever boast.

Kill me, my boyes, 'tis mercy to be kill'd
With love; who would not die in such a field
Of damask rose, slain by her lilie hand?
Dart me to death, you pretty b yes, that stand
Upon her breast, the shafts which thence you send,
Tell me, I am Amanda's bosome-friend.

To Amanda lying in bed.

In bed, my Dearest? thus my eye perceives
A primrose lodg'd betwixt its rugged leaves;
Lain down, Amanda? thus have I often seen
A lily cast upon a bed of green;
So the sweet Alablaster Babie lies
Cradled in fresher mosse; thy sparkling eyes
Dart forth such active beams, the god of sleep
Dare not come in his nightly court to keep,
He dares not lull thee, whil'st so bright they shine.
All Argus eyes watch in each eye of thine:
But when the humour takes you, that you please
To draw your eye-lids close, and take your ease;
He hovers o're the tester of your bed,
And gently on them will his poppies shed:

Then, my Amanda, (with his leaden crown
And scepter queen'd) let those faire vallins down,
Those fine white sattin vallins o're thy eye,
With their silk linings of a scarlet die.
Let that soft hand into the bed repaire,
Safe from the moisture of the dampish aire,
Yet let me taste it first; so keep thee warm,
Lie close, would I might lay thee in mine arme.
Good night, my Dear, ne'er say good night to me,
Till I all night, Amanda sleep with thee.

On Amanda fallen asleep.

Sleep is a kinde of death, why may not I
Write my Deares Epitaph, her Elegie?
Here lies Amanda fast asleep,
Whom Cupid guards, and Angels keep;
Here lies the rarest prize
Two pearles within her eyes,
So have I seen a gem
A Princely diadem
Shut in a Cabinet,
A whole treasury
In a small box of ivorie,
Inlaid with bars and grates of jet.
For such Amanda's eye-lids are
White and fringed with black hair.

Here lies Amanda dead asleep:
Hither lovers come and weep:
Here's a hand which doth out-goe
In whitenesse driven snow;
Upon that sweet bag cast your eye,
There on fine, fresh, green sattin see it lie,
With knots of scarlet ribbon by:
Thus interwoven have I seen
Virgius wax candles red and green,
Proud with a fine white twist between.

Hither lovers haste and see,
Her slender fingers circled be,
Like Rings enamel'd with the Galaxie;
Her locks as soft as sloven silke,
Through her Alpes do make their way,
And on her breasts which do out-vie
The icie rocks of frozen milk,
And th'lovely Swans soft downie thigh,
Her stately amorous curles
The saucie wantons play.
Whil'st two fierce Cupids on her niples sit,
To wound the hearts of stupid churles,
Who passe Amanda's tomb-stone by,
And with so much as half an eye,
Will not vouchsafe to look on it.

Here lies my Dear Amanda chaste and faire,
Don-Cupids charge and Angels care,
Here she lies, and yet not here,
For she's buried otherwhere.
She's pris'ner in my heart,
From whence she can no sooner part
Then dead men from the grave;
And yet she there doth move,
Not only in the ghost of love,
No, though a pris'ner, yet she's free,
Alas, too free for me,
She lives my bleeding heart t' enslave.

Here my sweetest sweet Amanda lies,

The best, the rarest of all rarities,
Shrouded she is from top to toe,
With lilies which all o're her grow,
In stead of bayes and rosemarie,
Roses in her cheeks there be,
Oh would I thy coffin were!
Amanda's living sepulchre!
Or would within that winding sheet
Our happy limbs might closely meet!
There would I chastly lie till th' day of doom,
And mingle dust till th' resurrection come;
But since as yet this cannot be,
For Heavens sake,
My Dearest, now awake,
For whil'st Amanda sleeps, she's dead to me.

To Amanda waking.

Awake at length! oh quickly, Fairest, rise,
And let the day break from thy brighter eyes,
Heark how the early cockrel crowes, my Dear,
'Tis not Aurora's, but thy chaunticlere;
Heark how the merry cherpers of the spring
To thee their goddesse do their mattens sing!
The purple violets startle from their beds,
Gently erecting their sweet pearly heads
On their fresh leaved boulsters, each would be
A Benefactresse to thy treasury,

And shake into thy snowie breast a tear,
To be congeal'd into a jewel there:
Look how that woodb ne at the window peeps,
And slilie underneath the casement creeps!
It's honey-suckle shewes, and tempting stands
To spend its morning Nectar in thy hands;
Look in the gardens of thy cheeks, and see
Aurora painting in thy rosarie:
The ripest mulberries do blush it thus,
Made guilty of the blood of Pyramus:
Nay had that modest fruit been stain'd with thine,
How like thy lips farre brighter would it shine!
Compar'd with which, who e're betimes hath seen
The ruddy, damask, Nabathean Queen,
With her red crimson morning wastcoat on,
Though in her glory she were look't upon
Newly with Sun-beams brush't, shall say at th' best;
'Tis a pale waterish rednesse in the East;
Nay, and that beauty which in her we see,
Is not her own, but borrow'd too from thee;
The Sunne himself reflects, he's but thy Moon,
Hide but thy face, and he is eclipst at noon.

Cast off that drowsie mantle of the night,
And rise, Amanda, or 'twill ne'er be light,
Thy beautie only can drive night away,
Rise, rise, my Fairest, or we lose a day.

A morning Salute to Amanda.

Now a good morning to my sweetest love,
Health from all mankind and the Saints above;
Ave, Amanda; spare that dew that lies
On thy faire hand to wash my love-sick eyes,
That at my prayers I may better see,
Virgin most sweet, to tell my beads to thee:
I am a Papist, zealous, strict, precise,
Amanda is the Saint I idolize.

To Amanda washing her hands.

How prettily those dabchick fingers play,
And sport with the cool Nymph, which doth obey
Their doubtful motions, opens every where,
Where e're they please to dive and ravish her!
Cupid with a gold bason and Ewre stands,
Shedding rose-water on thy lilie hands;
Officious Venus too her self stands by
With towels like thy maid to wipe them dry.
See from thy fingers pretty bubbles fall,
A faire Narcissus cloyster'd in them all!
No, no, that broken bubbles eccho there,
Told me Narcissus was not half so faire:

See in each bubble a bright smiling lasse,
Each bubble is Amanda's looking-glasse.

To Amanda after she had wash't.

Heark now these bubbles talk of thee, and break
Themselves in their last breath thy name to speak!
Heark how they sigh and wish they Crystal were,
They might be ever pendents in thy eare!
That water flung away! No, no, my Faire,
With it no Chymick Essence can compare;
'Tis clarifi'd and quick'ned with the balme,
The morning philter of thy dewie palme.
The sweetnesse of thy hands remaineth yet,
'Twill make me faire to wash my face with it:
Oh I must drink; Amanda, give it me,
'Tis Nectarilla, and doth taste of thee.

To Amanda walking in the Garden.

And now what Monarch would not Gard'ner be,
My faire Amanda's stately gate to see;
How her feet tempt! how soft and light she treads,
Fearing to wake the flowers from their beds!
Yet from their sweet green pillowes ev'ry where,

They start and gaze about to see my Faire;
Look at yon flower yonder, how it growes
Sensibly! how it opes its leaves and blowes,
Puts its best Easter clothes on, neat and gay!
Amanda's presence makes it holy-day:
Look how on tip-toe that faire lilie stands
To look on thee, and court thy whiter hands
To gather it! I saw in yonder croud
That Tulip-bed, of which Dame-Flora's proud,
A short dwarfe flower did enlarge its stalk,
And shoot an inch to see Amanda walk;
Nay, look, my Fairest, look how fast they grow!
Into a scaffold method spring! as though
Riding to Parl'ament were to be seen
In pomp and state some royal am'rous Queen:
The gravel'd walks, though ev'n as a die,
Lest some loose pebble should offensive lie,
Quilt themselves o're with downie mosse for thee,
The walls are hang'd with blossom'd tapestrie;
To hide her nakednesse when look't upon,
The maiden fig-tree puts Eves apron on;
The broad-leav'd Sycomore, and ev'ry tree
Shakes like the trembling Aspe, and bends to thee,
And each leaf proudly strives with fresher aire,
To fan the curled tresses of thy hair;
Nay, and the Bee too, with his wealthie thigh,
Mistakes his hive, and to thy lips doth flie;
Willing to treasure up his honey there,
Where honey-combs so sweet and plenty are:
Look how that pretty modest Columbine

Hangs down its head to view those feet of thine!
See the fond motion of the Strawberrie,
Creeping on th' earth to go along with thee!
The lovely violet makes after too,
Unwilling yet, my Dear, to part with you;
The knot-grasse and the dazies catch thy toes
To kisse my Faire ones feet before she goes;
All court and wish me lay Amanda down,
And give my Dear a new green flower'd gown.
Come let me kisse thee falling, kisse at rise,
Thou in the Garden, I in Paradise.

To Amanda seeming to deny his request.

Pretty, coy, modest thing! how lovingly
She seems to grant me, what she doth deny!
Troth, little Cupid, 'tis a pretty Art
To look another way, and strike a heart;
But why, my boy dost teach the women it,
Who whilst they say they will not shoot, do hit?
Well-plaid good Angler, with thy sportive bait,
To catch it from me when I think I ha't.

But why Amanda, am I thus deni'd,
And after so long treatie cast aside?
Perhaps thou lov'st to hear me ask of thee,
To laugh at my poor Courtship beggerie:
Canst thou be so unkinde? must I forbear

To love Amanda? Strange! well though, my Faire,
We must return our Pledges, prethie then
Take all thy suretie kisses back agen.
First my indebted lips shall pay thee thine,
Then thou shalt kisse me till thou pay'st me mine:
Paying our debt, shall make's indebted more,
Wee'l kissing pay, and paying run o'th' score,
And run so long, so deep in debt, my Dear,
Till neither on's can pay his vast Arrear;
So in loves lawful action by my troth
The catch-heart Cupid shall arrest us both;
And if that little bum-Bayliffe in my suite
Arrest Amanda, and she prosecute
Her Creditor for debt agen; for thee
I'le take no bayle, none shall be giv'n for me,
But these my armes shall thy close prison be,
And thou shalt finde a prison too for me;
Bridewel or Gatehouse, Heaven to my heart,
Whil'st thou my Keeper and my Prison art:
Nor do I care, but pray there may not be
These hundred yeares a Goal-delivery.

But what's the meaning of this feign'd denial,
Was it to check my hopes, or make a trial
Of my undoubted love? Amanda, know,
The hastie current stop't doth overflow.

Thou art a richer jewel, 'tis not fit
So little asking should obtain thee yet;
Porters with whom such wealthie treasures are,
Ope not the door till they know who is there;

Let my Dear know I will not pillage her,
I only ask to be her treasurer.
I love to feel that hand that pats me so,
And seems to say me yes in saying no.

To Amanda desirous to drink.

Calling for beer! know not the gods they ought
To send thee Nectar for thy mornings draught
I'm sure the Heavens do allow it you,
Ambrosia-Caudles for your break-fast too;
How is't? surely this lazie Ganimed
Sleeps it, and is not yet got out of's bed:
What not yet come! Amanda, by that face
I'le turne this punie Butler out of's place.
And drain the skies till there no Nectar be,
But what the gods shall beg as almes from thee.

To Amanda inviting her to walk.

Come, 'tis a morning like thy self, my Faire,
Sweet as thy breath the spring perfumes the air
With the fresh fragrant odours of its balme,
Still'd from the last nights dew, a pleasing calm
Invites thee forth; there's no unruly blast,
No sauce winde to give the least distaste;

In the disordering of those curles, which move
As if each haire were with it self in love;
Thy fingers made those rings, and ev'ry haire,
Thinks it doth still embrace thy finger there:
Heark how the birds play Consorts o're and o're!
Heark to that modest begger at the door,
Whose lungs breath spices! gentle Zephyrus
Whispers, and through the key-hole calls to us;
The Sunne himself yonder expectant stayes,
And strewes the golden atomes of his raies,
To guild thy paths; though in post-haste he be,
Yet he stands still to look and gaze on thee.
The Heavens court thee, Princely Oberon
And Mab his Emp'resse both expect thee yon,
They wait to see thee, sport the time away,
And on green beds of dazies dance the hay;
In their small acorn posnets, as they meet
Quaffe off the dew, lest it should wet thy feet.
The black-birds whistle, and the Finches sing
To welcome thy approach, and not the Spring.

Come then, my Turtle, let us make our flight,
And browse it in the arbours of delight;
To the next me low-Tempe let us move;
Let's flie to Heaven on the wings of love,
And when kinde Cupid has conveigh'd us thither,
Wee'l chastely sit and mingle bills together.

To Amanda walking abroad.

Come, come, Amanda, hand in hand wee'l walk;
Heark how the birds of Love and Cupid talk.
As if they lately had been drinking wine,
Each chirps a dialogue to his Valentine:
Nay, to their downie breasted Ladies yet,
At yon clear Crystal spring they'r bibbing it,
As if all bowles too narrow-belli'd were,
And cups too shallow, with a heartie prayer.
Health after health, each to his plumie lasse
Carowseth in the brook, and scornes the glasse,
Nay, and as if they fear'd to drink it dry,
The hot cock-sparrow doth still, Fill it, cry;
See how to's Mistris with his tipling bill,
The Nightingal doth sweetly juggeit still!
That pretty Linnet seems to drink to me,
I'le pledge thy health, Amanda, kissing thee.
And whil'st those feather'd-lovers water sip,
I'le quaffe the Orleans-claret of thy lip,
And suck those bloody mulberries in,
Till like that fruit my lips seem'd stain'd with sinne;
Then sinne in 'ts blush shall make me more devout,
I'le kisse and sinne, and sinne a pardon out;
For thou'rt so chaste, that who once kisse thee may,
In that one kisse wipes all his sinne away;
Though blasphemie and murther it remit,

Pope Joans Indulgence doth come short of it,
'Tis Heaven it self, and on that lip to dwell
Is to be sainted; of no greater hell
Can lovers dream, no greater sin commit
Then to leave kissing, and to part with it.

To Amanda like to be taken in a showre.

Well done, kinde unexpected Æolus,
Thy boyes have bravely kept the raine from us,
Thank thee, as yet we have not wet a thread;
Me thoughts I saw over Amanda's head
Thy huff't-puff't blub-cheek't Caitiffes hover,
And stretch their lungs to blow th' last showre over;
Then the sweet plump-fac't rogues, when fair
And clear it was, as if they breathlesse were
To save Amanda, begg'd and kept a stir
To get my leave they might take breath from her
I gave my grant, they kist, each kisse did prove
They were no windes, but Angels fall'n in love.
How can my Dearest, then my dotage blame,
If I so oft call on Amanda's name;
The courtly Cherubims my rivals be,
And Heaven makes thee it's Penelope.

To Amanda fearing a second showre.

What means this woman-like unconstant weather,
These spungie clouds so strangely squeez'd together!
Should my Deares face be once so over-cast,
My eyes would deluge till the storme were past;
But when her pleasing Sunne-shine once appears,
Her rayes of beauty dry up all my teares:
See the clouds blown away, be then to me
Kinde as the stormes and tempests are to thee;
And like the Heavens cast those vailes away,
Unmuffle, sweetest, and thy beams display;
It has cleer'd up, yet still 'tis cloudie though,
The weather's faire, when my Faire makes it so
Fear not, Amanda, but unmask thy eyes,
Come prethy, I'le unpin those mummeries.
'Twill raine no more, I'le kisse thy cheeks.
'Tis May without an April showre there.

An Answer to Amanda's question.

Philosophers , who in old dayes did live,
Say it is Jove makes water through a sieve;
Perhaps their god is drunk heleakes so fast,

Or else some Doctor must his urine cast;
I'le tell thee Fairest, Heavens bank'rout King,
Grown poor through lust doth silver hailstones fling
Instead of gold, the shower aim'd at thee,
He faine would take thee as his Danäe.

I'le tell thee, my Amanda, whence it is,
It rain'd so much to day, the reason's this,
The Sunne espi'd thy beauty, look't upon't,
And Heaven sneez'd with looking too much on't.

To a Rivall.

Keep off presumption; horrid impudence,
Bold monstrous traitor to my love, get hence,
Strange daring faith! venture to step between
A jealous Monarch, and a chaster Queen,
Go tempt a Kingdom kept by the magick spell
Of a Prince politick; I'm loves Machavel;
This is my Florence, and thou tempt'st from me
Not an Italians wife, but Italy;
Ransack the great Turks Seraglio, try
T' out-pimp the lustful Sultans jealousie;
Hug the coy lawrel, and expect to see
Daphne throw off her bark and follow thee:
Make old Endymion Pander, and conferre
With Luna, till thou get new moones on her;
Surprize an Abbesse and her Nunnerie,
Reconcile love to its antipathie;

Go dive amongst the haddocks and the whales,
Make love to Mare-maids and their Conger-tailes;
Court some faire skillet-face, and swear she's neat,
For pricking skewers well and spitting meat;
Some greasie Cook-maid whose sweet dugs suck in,
Receive and mingle dripping with her chin,
Who nightly with her knife her smock put off,
Scrapes thence some pipkins full of kitchin-stuffe,
Or wooe some driv'ling Hag, whose pitfal skin
Makes lust mistake the wonted place of sinne.
On some thrum'd Baucis spend thy hopes and labour,
Where thou mayest bathe thy lips in slime and slabber
Cuckold the devil, get some Proserpine,
Some Succuba to be thy Concubine.
Engender with the night-mare, and beget
Dreams which may stang thy blood, and jellie it;
This once accomplish't, thou may'st freely ask
Amanda's love, but fore thou'st done thy task,
If thou dare once come near this sacred Court,
Wherein my Princesse love and beauty sport,
Ile stifle thy rebel heart in clotted gore
Of blood, with knives and daggers shroud thee o're,
And make thee bear i'th' face, throat, heart and back,
More signes then he in Swallows Almanack.

A game at Chesse with Amanda.

I and Amanda on a day,
Sat down a game at Chesse to play,
Passing my Bishops with their lawnes,
She was still for taking pawnes,
She play'd, I play'd, she chect me straight,
She wish't, I wish't it might be mate:
But then (said I) I must check you,
Or else you'l check and beat me too.