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Wit A Sporting In a pleasant Grove Of New Fancies

By H. B. [i.e. Henry Bold]

Bold, Henry (1627-1683)

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THE AUTHOR, TO THE READER.

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A Pleasant Grove of new Fancies.

On a Lillie in his Ladies hand.

To his Mistress when she was going into the Country.

To his Mistress on her scorne.

The Question and Anwser.

To his Worthy friend and Mistress.

To his Mistress.

Fooles Paradise, or Reason Bewitcht.

Loves Apostacy to his friend Mr. E. D.

The broken-heart-song.

Women are mens shadows.

Women are not mens shadows.

To himself of his Mistris.

To his Superlative Mistris.

Of one Mary Frail, who lay with Mr. Reason.

The new Petition.

The Widdow Bride.

The true, and happy state of Love.

An Elegiack Sonnet.

A Complaint of his seperation from his Mistris, caused by his friends injunction

A trick for your Learning.

To a Detractor.

To the Slanderer.

That he is love sick and cannot write Verses.

The bag of the Bee.

To his Mistris.

His Protestation to his Mistris.

To his Mistris.

On himself.

To the Virgins to make much of time.

Upon her Brests.

How Violets came blew.

Counsel not to love.

On the Willow-tree.

To his Mistris to command him any thing.

A Hymne to Venus.

The good night to the Bride

The Willow-Garland.

To Baull, the Cryer.

On deaf Joan, the Ale-wife.

To Zounds the Swaggerer

To his Mistris.

To his Mistris.

To Robbin Redbrest.

His Vision to his Mistris.

Charon and Philomel,

To his Mistris.

To his Mistris, on the Day-break.

To his Mistris.

Another, to bring in the Witch.

Another Charm for Stables.

A Vow to Venus.

St. Distaffs day, or the morrow after Twelf-day.

On Josephs Cloke.

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The first Dream.

On Phillis Close Nun-like Retirement.

Phillis Nun-like Coyness.

The second Dream.

PHILLIS her Lute.

PHILLIS Hand and Glove.

His third Dream of FILLIS Evening Walk and Voice.

FILLIS and the Nightingale.

His fourth Dream of Cressas Funeral, the Love of Difloris.

PHILLIS Complaint.

On his retired Lady.

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53

On himself.

Love-sick I am, and must indure
A desperate grief that finds no cure:
Ah me! I try, and trying prove
No herbs can cure the power of Love:
Only our soveraign salve I know,
And that is death, the end of woe.