TO ROBIN RED-BREAST. Laid out for dead, let thy last kindness be TO THE LARK. Good speed, for I this day Because I do Begin to woo, Sweet singing Lark, Be thou the clerk, And know thy when To say Amen. And if I prove Blest in my love, Then thou shalt be High Priest to me, To incense burn, And so to solemnise Love's and my sacrifice. TO THE ROSE Song. Go, happy Rose, and interwove L VOL. IL Say, if she's fretful, I have bands I have myrtle rods at will, For to tame, though not to kill. Take thou my blessing thus, and go Like a lightning from her eye, THE BAG OF THE BEE About the sweet bag of a bee And whose the pretty prize should be Which Venus hearing, thither came, Which done, to still their wanton cries, TO THE DUKE OF YORK. May his pretty Duke-ship grow Sweeter far than ever yet Showers or sunshine could beget; And so dress him up with love As to be the chick of Jove; May the thrice three Sisters sing May his soft foot, where it treads, May his ample name be known And his actions high be told Through the world, but writ in gold. THE LITANY. In the hour of my distress, Sweet Spirit, comfort me! When I lie within my bed, Sweet Spirit, comfort me! When the house doth sigh and weep, When the artless doctor sees When his potion and his pill, When the passing-bell doth toll, Sweet Spirit, comfort me! When the tapers now burn blue, And that number more than true, When the priest his last hath pray'd, 'Cause my speech is now decay'd, When, God knows, I'm tost about, Yet, before the glass be out, Sweet Spirit, comfort me! When the tempter me pursu'th When the flames and hellish cries Fright mine ears, and fright mine eyes, And all terrors me surprise, Sweet Spirit, comfort me! When the Judgment is reveal'd, GRACE FOR A CHILD. Here, a little child, I stand, On our meat, and on our all. Amen. THE DIRGE OF JEPHTHAH'S Daughter. O thou, the wonder of all days! Above the rest Of all the maiden-train! We come, Thus, thus, and thus, we compass round And other flowers, lay upon The altar of our love, thy stone. Thou wonder of all maids, liest herc, Of this smooth green, And all sweet meads, from whence we get The primrose and the violet. Too soon, too dear did Jephthah buy, By thy sad loss, our liberty; His was the bond and cov'nant, yet Lamented Maid! he won the day: Thy father brought with him along And in the purchase of our peace, |