Wit A Sporting In a pleasant Grove Of New Fancies ::

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.

A Pleasant Grove of new Fancies.

On a Lillie in his Ladies hand.

His Choyce.

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.

Anagramme.

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.

The Usurer.

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.

Upon Love.

To his Mistris.

On himself.

To the Virgins to make much of time.

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 a Teltale.

To Baull, the Cryer.

On deaf Joan, the Ale-wife.

To Zounds the Swaggerer

His Vision to his Mistris.

Charon and Philomel,

To his Mistris.

To his Mistris, on the Day-break.

Another, to bring in the Witch.

Another Charm for Stables.

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

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.

Epitaph.

PHILLIS Complaint.

On his retired Lady.

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To his Mistris.

I could but see thee yesterday
Sung by a fretful Bee,
And I the Jave in snatcht away,
And heal'd the wound in thee.

A thousand thorns, and briars, and stings
I have in my poor brest,
Yet ne're can see that salve which brings
My passions any rest

As love shall help me, I admire
How thou canst sit and smile
To see me bleed, and not desire
To stench the blood the while.

If thou compos'd of gentle mould,
Art so unkind to me;
What dismal stories will be told
Of Trose, that cruel Bee.

University of Virginia Library

To his Mistris.