William Browne
On his face, still as he bled
For each drop a tear she shed,
Which she kiss'd or wip'd away,
Else had drown'd him where he lay.
Fair Proserpina (quoth she)
Shall not have thee yet from me;
Nor my soul to fly begin
While my lips can keep it in.
Here she clos'd again. And some
Say Apollo would have come
To have cur'd his wounded limb,
But that she had smothered him.
From Britannia's Pastorals.
A Song
Gentle nymphs, be not refusing.
Love's neglect is time's abusing,
They and beauty are but lent you;
Take the one and keep the other:
Love keeps fresh what age doth smother;
Beauty gone you will repent you.
'Twill be said when ye have proved,
Never swains more truly loved:
Oh then fly all nice behaviour!
Pity fain would (as her duty)
Be attending still on Beauty,
Let her not be out of favour.
From Britannia's Pastorals.
Spring Morning—I
Thomalin.
Where is every piping lad
That the fields are not yclad
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