Now vouchsafe this day or it be night, That I of you the blissful sowne may here, Or see your color like the sunne bright, That of yellowness had never pere; Ye are my life, ye be my hertes stere, Queen of comfort and of good companie, Be heavy again, or else mote I die.

Now purse, thou art to me my lives light, And saviour, as downe in this world here, Out of this towne helpe me by your might, Sith that you will not be my treasure, For I am slave as nere as any frere, But I pray unto your curtesie, Be heavy again, or els mote I die.

TO CHLOE.

AN APOLOGY FOR GOING INTO THE COUNTRY. PETER PINDAR.

Chloe, we must not always be in heaven, For ever toying, ogling, kissing, billing; The joys for which I thousands would have given, Will presently be scarcely worth a shilling.

Thy neck is fairer than the Alpine snows, And, sweetly swelling, beats the down of doves; Thy cheek of health, a rival to the rose; Thy pouting lips, the throne of all the loves; Yet, though thus beautiful beyond expression, That beauty fadeth by too much possession.

Economy in love is peace to nature, Much like economy in worldly matter; We should be prudent, never live too fast; Profusion will not, can not, always last.

Lovers are really spendthrifts--'tis a shame-- Nothing their thoughtless, wild career can tame, Till penury stares them in the face; And when they find an empty purse, Grown calmer, wiser, how the fault they curse, And, limping, look with such a sneaking grace! Job's war-horse fierce, his neck with thunder hung, Sunk to an humble hack that carries dung.

Smell to the queen of flowers, the fragrant rose-- Smell twenty times--and then, my dear, thy nose Will tell thee (not so much for scent athirst) The twentieth drank less flavor than the FIRST.

Love, doubtless, is the sweetest of all fellows; Yet often should the little god retire-- Absence, dear Chloe, is a pair of bellows, That keeps alive the sacred fire.

TO A FLY,

TAKEN OUT OF A BOWL OF PUNCH. PETER PINDAR.

Ah! poor intoxicated little knave, Now senseless, floating on the fragrant wave; Why not content the cakes alone to munch? Dearly thou pay'st for buzzing round the bowl; Lost to the world, thou busy sweet-lipped soul-- Thus Death, as well as Pleasure, dwells with Punch.

Now let me take thee out, and moralize-- Thus 'tis with mortals, as it is with flies, Forever hankering after Pleasure's cup: Though Fate, with all his legions, be at hand, The beasts, the draught of Circe can't withstand, But in goes every nose--they must, will sup.

Mad are the passions, as a colt untamed! When Prudence mounts their backs to ride them mild, They fling, they snort, they foam, they rise inflamed, Insisting on their own sole will so wild.

Gadsbud! my buzzing friend, thou art not dead; The Fates, so kind, have not yet snapped thy thread; By heavens, thou mov'st a leg, and now its brother. And kicking, lo, again, thou mov'st another!