No More Learning

241. UPON A PAINTED GENTLEWOMAN.

Men say y'are fair, and fair ye are, 'tis true;
But, hark! we praise the painter now, not you.


243. DRAW-GLOVES.

At draw-gloves we'll play,
And prithee let's lay
A wager, and let it be this:
Who first to the sum
Of twenty shall come,
Shall have for his winning a kiss.

_Draw-gloves_, a game of talking by the fingers.


244. TO MUSIC, TO BECALM A SWEET-SICK YOUTH.

Charms, that call down the moon from out her sphere,
On this sick youth work your enchantments here:
Bind up his senses with your numbers so
As to entrance his pain, or cure his woe.
Fall gently, gently, and a while him keep
Lost in the civil wilderness of sleep:
That done, then let him, dispossessed of pain,
Like to a slumb'ring bride, awake again.


245. TO THE HIGH AND NOBLE PRINCE GEORGE, DUKE, MARQUIS, AND EARL OF
BUCKINGHAM.

Never my book's perfection did appear
Till I had got the name of Villars here:
Now 'tis so full that when therein I look
I see a cloud of glory fills my book.
Here stand it still to dignify our Muse,
Your sober handmaid, who doth wisely choose
Your name to be a laureate wreath to her
Who doth both love and fear you, honoured sir.


246. HIS RECANTATION.

Love, I recant,
And pardon crave
That lately I offended;
But 'twas,
Alas!
To make a brave,
But no disdain intended.

No more I'll vaunt,
For now I see
Thou only hast the power
To find
And bind
A heart that's free,
And slave it in an hour.


247. THE COMING OF GOOD LUCK.

So good luck came, and on my roof did light,
Like noiseless snow, or as the dew of night:
Not all at once, but gently, as the trees
Are by the sunbeams tickled by degrees.


248. THE PRESENT; OR, THE BAG OF THE BEE.

Fly to my mistress, pretty pilfering bee,
And say thou bring'st this honey bag from me:
When on her lip thou hast thy sweet dew placed,
Mark if her tongue but slyly steal a taste.
If so, we live; if not, with mournful hum
Toll forth my death; next, to my burial come.


249. ON LOVE.

Love bade me ask a gift,
And I no more did move
But this, that I might shift
Still with my clothes my love:
That favour granted was;
Since which, though I love many,
Yet so it comes to pass
That long I love not any.