WHEN Love, puft He would not, arm'd with beauty, only reign So that I live to pay a mortal fee, Dead-palfy fick of all my chiefeft parts, Like those whom dreams make ugly monsters fee, Longing to have, having no wit to wish, To To the TUNE of Non credo gia che piu infelice Amante. THE 1. 'HE Fire, to fee my wrongs, for anger burneth The Air in rain for my affliction weepeth: The Sea to ebb, for grief, his flowing turneth; The Earth, with pity, dull the center keepeth ; Fame is with wonder blazed; Time runs away for forrow; Place ftandeth ftill amazed To fee my night of evils, which hath no morrow. Alas! a lovely She no pity taketh To know my miseries; but, chaste and cruel, Yet ftill her eyes give to my flames their fuel. II. Fire! burn me quite, 'till fenfe of barning leave me; Air! let me draw no more thy breath in anguish ; Sea! drown'd in thee, of tedious life bereave me; Earth! take this earth, wherein my spirits languish: Fame. Fame, fay I was not born; Time, hafte my dying hour ; Place, fee my grave up-torn ;. Fire, Air, Sea, Earth, Fame, Time, Place, fhew your pow'r. Alas! from all their help I am exiled; For hers am I, and Death fears her difpleasure. Tho' I be hers, fhe makes of me no treasure. "HE nightingale, as foon as April bringeth, THE Unto her rested fenfe, a perfect waking, While late bare earth, proud of new cloathing, fpringeth, Sings out her woes, a thorn her fong-book making; And mournfully bewailing, Her throat in tunes expreffeth What grief her breaft oppreffeth," For Thereus force on her chafte will prevailing. O Philomela fair! O take fome gladness, Thine earth now fprings, mine fadeth; Thy thorn without; my thorn my heart invadeth. :{DIA II. Alas! fhe hath no other caufe of anguifh, But I, who daily craving, Since wanting is more woe than too much having. O Philomela fair! O take fome gladness, To the Tune of Bafcia mi vita mia. SLEEP, baby mine, Defire, nurse-beauty, fingeth; Lully, lully, my babe, Hope cradle bringeth Since, baby mine, from me thy watching fpringeth, The babe cries, Nay, for that abide Iwaking. I To ། To the Tune of the Spanish Song, Fair! Ofweet! when I do look on thee, This you hear, is not my tongue, With a cruel anfwer ftung. No! though tongue to roof be cleaved, O fair! O fweet! &c. Juft accord all mufick makes; In thee just accord excelleth, Where each part in fuch peace dwelleth, One of other beauty takes. That in thee lives harmony, Heart and foul do fing in me. O fair! O fweet! &c. They that heav'n have known, do fay, So then fince that heav'n remaineth la |