A HYMN TO LOVE.

I WILL Confess

With cheerfulness

Love is a thing so likes me,
That let her lay

On me all day;

I'll kiss the hand that strikes me!

I will not, I,

Now blubb'ring cry,

It, ah! too late repents me,
That I did fall

To Love at all!'

Since Love so much contents me.

No! No! I'll be

In fetters free!

While others, they sit wringing
Their hands, for pain;

I'll entertain

The wounds of Love with singing!

With flowers, and wine,

And cakes divine,

To strike me, I will tempt thee! Which done; no more

I'll come before

Thee, and thine altars, empty!

A BACCHANALIAN VERSE.

FILL me a mighty bowl
Up to the brim!

That I may drink
Unto my JONSON's soul.

Crown it again! again!

And thrice repeat

That happy heat,

To drink to thee, my BEN!

Well I can quaff, I see!
To th' number five,

Or nine: but thrive

In frenzy ne'er like thee!

HIS PRAYER TO BEN JONSON.

WHEN I a verse shall make;

Know, I have prayed thee,

For old religion's sake,

Saint BEN, to aid me!

Make the way smooth for me!
When I, thy HERRICK!
Honouring thee, on my knee
Offer my Lyric!

Candles I'll give to thee;
And a new altar!

And thou, Saint BEN, shalt be
Writ in my Psalter!

AN ODE FOR BEN JONSON.

AH! BEN!

Say how, or when,

Shall we, thy guests,
Meet at those lyric feasts,
Made at the Sun,

The Dog, the Triple Tun?
Where we such clusters had,

As made us nobly wild; not mad!
And yet each verse of thine

Outdid the meat! outdid the frolic wine!

MY BEN!
Or come again ;

Or send to us
Thy wit's great overplus!

But teach us yet

Wisely to husband 't;
Lest we that Talent spend!

And having once brought to an end

That precious stock, the store

Of such a Wit; the World should have no more!

A BALLAD UPON A WEDDING.

I TELL thee, DICK! where I have been!
Where I, the rarest things have seen;
O, things without compare!
Such sights again cannot be found
In any place on English ground;
Be it at Wake! or Fair!

At Charing Cross, hard by the way
Where we (thou know'st!) do sell our hay,
There is a house with stairs;

And there, did I see coming down
Such folk as are not in our town,
Forty at least, in pairs.

Amongst the rest, one pest'lent fine
(His beard no bigger, though, than thine!)
Walked on before the rest.
Our landlord looks like nothing to him!
The King (God bless him!), 'twould undo him,
Should he go still so drest!

At Course-a-Park, without all doubt,
He should have first been taken out
By all the Maids i̇' th' town;
Though lusty ROGER there had been
Or little GEORGE upon the Green,

Or VINCENT of the Crown.

But wot you what! The Youth was going
To make an end of all his wooing.
The Parson for him stayed.

Yet, by his leave, for all his haste,
He did not so much wish all past,
Perchance, as did the Maid.

The Maid (and thereby hangs a tale!):
For such a Maid no Whitsun Ale
Could ever yet produce!

No grape that 's kindly ripe could be
So round, so plump, so soft, as She;
Nor half so full of juice!

Her Finger was so small, the ring
Would not stay on; which they did bring.
It was too wide a peck!
And to say truth, for out it must!
It looked like the great collar (just)
About our young colt's neck.

Her Feet, beneath her petticoat,
Like little mice stole in and out,
As if they feared the light:
But O, She dances such a way!
No sun, upon an Easter Day,
Is half so fine a sight! . .