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Full of arrows that outbrave
Dian's shafts; where, if he have
Any head more sharp than other,
With that first he strikes his mother.

Still the fairest are his fuel,

When his days are to be cruel,

Lovers' hearts are all his food,
And his baths their warmest blood;

Nothing but wounds his hand doth season,
And he hates none like to Reason.

Trust him not; his words though sweet,

Seldom with his heart do meet.

All his practice is deceit;

Every gift it is a bait;

Not a kiss but poison bears;

And most treason to his tears.

Idle minutes are his reign;

Then the straggler makes his gain,
By presenting maids with toys,
And would have ye think them joys;
'Tis the ambition of the elf

To have all childish as himself.

If by these ye please to know him,
Beauties, be not nice, but show him.
Though ye had a will to hide him,
Now, we hope, ye'll not abide him.
Since you hear his falser play,
And that he's Venus' runaway.

ON LUCY, COUNTESS OF BEDFORD. This morning, timely rapt with holy fire,

I thought to form unto my zealous Muse, What kind of creature I could most desire,

To honour, serve, and love; as poets use

I meant to make her fair, and free, and wise,

Of greatest blood, and yet more good than great;
I meant the day-star should not brighter rise,
Nor lend like influence from his lucent seat,

I meant that she should be courteous, facile, sweet
Hating that solemn vice of greatness, pride;
I meant each softest virtue there should meet,
Fit in that softer bosom to reside.

Only a learned and a manly soul

I purposed her; that should, with even powers,
The rock, the spindle, and the shears control

Of Destiny, and spin her own free hours.
Such when I meant to feign, and wish'd to see,
My Muse bade, Bedford write, and that was she!

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A HYMN TO GOD THE FATHER.

Hear me, O God!

A broken heart
Is my best part!
Use still Thy rod,
That I may prove
Therein thy love.

If Thou hadst not
Been stern to me,
But left me free,
I had forgot
Myself and Thee.

For sin's so sweet
As minds ill bent
Rarely repent,

Until they meet

Their punishment.

Who more can cure

Than Thou hast done,

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MARGARET RATCLIFFE.

Marble, weep, for thou dost cover
A dead beauty underneath thee,
Rich as nature could bequeath thee!
Grant then, no rude hand remove her.
All the gazers on the skies

Read not in fair heaven's story,
Expresser truth, or truer glory,
Than they might in her bright eyes.

Rare as wonder was her wit;
And, like nectar, ever flowing!
Till time, strong by her bestowing,
Conquer'd hath both life and it;
Life, whose grief was out of fashion
In these times. Few so have rued
Fate in a brother. To conclude,
For wit, feature, and true passion,
Earth, thou hast not such another.

THE NOBLE NATURE.

It is not growing like a tree

In bulk, doth make Man better be;

Or standing long an oak, three hundred year,
To fall a log at last, dry, bald, and serę:
A lily of a day

Is fairer far in May,

Although it fall and die that night

It was the plant and flower of Light. In small proportions we just beauties see; And in short measures life may perfect be.

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