SHIRLEY.

DEATH's FINAL CONQUEST.

THE glories of our birth and state
Are shadows, not fubftantial things;
There is no armour against fate;
Death lays his icy hands on kings.
Sceptre and crown

Muft tumble down,

And in the dust be equal made

With the poor crooked scythe and fpade.

Some men with fwords may reap the field,
And plant fresh laurels where they kill;
But their ftrong nerves at last muft yield;
They tame but one another ftill.
Early or late,

They ftoop to fate,

And must give up their murmuring breath, When they, pale captives, creep to death.

The garlands wither on your brow,

Then boaft no more your mighty deeds;

Upon death's purple altar now,

See where the victor victim bleeds.

All heads must come

To the cold tomb;

Only the actions of the just

Smell fweet, and bloffom in the duft.

HABINGTON.

SONG.

FINE young Folly, tho' you were
That fair beauty I did swear,

Yet

you ne'er could touch my heart; For we courtiers learn at school, Only with your fex to fool

You're not worth the ferious part.

When I figh and kiss your hand,
Crofs my arms, and wond'ring stand,
Holding parley with your eye:

Then dilate on my desires,

Swear the fun ne'er fhot fuch fires,

All is but a handsome lie.

When I

eye your

curl or lace,

Gentle foul, you think your face Straight fome murder doth commit;

And your virtue doth begin

To grow fcrupulous of my fin,
When I talk to fhew my wit.

Therefore, Madam, wear no cloud,
Nor to check my love grow proud,
For in footh, I much do doubt
"Tis the powder on your hair,
Not your breath, perfumes the air,

And your cloaths that set you out.

Yet though truth has this confefs'd,
And I vow, I love in jest,

When I next begin to court,
And protest an amorous flame,
You will fwear I in earnest am,
Bedlam! this is pretty sport.

SONG.

Nor the phoenix in his death,
Nor those banks where violets grow,
And Arabian winds ftill blow,
Yield a perfume like her breath.
But, O! marriage, makes the spell,
And 'tis poifon if I fmell.

The twin beauties of the skies,
(When the half-funk failors hafte
To rend fail and cut their maft)
Shine not welcome as her eyes;

But thofe beams, than ftorms more black,
If they point at me, I wrack.

Then for fear of such a fire,

Which kills worse than the long night

Which benumbs the Muscovite,

I must from my life retire.

But, oh no, for if her eye

Warm me not, I freeze and die.

THE DESCRIPTION OF CASTARA.

LIKE the violet, which alone
Profpers in fome happy fhade,
My Caftara lives unknown,

To no loofer eye betray'd;
For fhe's to herself untrue,
Who delights i' th' public view.

Such is her beauty, as no arts

Have enrich'd with borrow'd Her high birth no pride imparts, For fhe blushes in her place; Folly boafts a glorious bloodShe is nobleft, being good.

grace;

She her throne makes reason climb,
Whilft wild paffions captive lie;
And, each article of time,

Her pure thoughts to heaven fly.

All her vows religious be,
And her love fhe vows to me,

TO CASTARA,

OF TRUE DELIGHT.

WHY doth the ear so tempt the voice That cunningly divides the air? Why doth the palate buy the choice Delights o' th' fea to enrich her fare?

Be curious in pursuit of eyes,

To procreate new loves with thine;

Satiety makes fense despise

What fuperftition thought divine.

Quick fancy how it mocks delight!
As we conceive things are not such ;
The glow-worm is as warm as bright,
Till the deceitful flame we touch.

The rofe yields her sweet blandishment, Loft in the folds of lovers' wreaths: The violet enchants the scent,

When early in the spring the breathes.