No More Learning

UPON LOVE.

In a dream, Love bade me go
To the galleys there to row;
In the vision I ask'd why?
Love as briefly did reply,
'Twas better there to toil, than prove
The turmoils they endure that love.
I awoke, and then I knew
What Love said was too-too true;
Henceforth therefore I will be,
As from love, from trouble free.
_None pities him that's in the snare,
And, warned before, would not beware. _


629. THE COBBLERS' CATCH.

Come sit we by the fire's side,
And roundly drink we here;
Till that we see our cheeks ale-dy'd
And noses tann'd with beer.


633. CONNUBII FLORES, OR THE WELL-WISHES AT WEDDINGS.

_Chorus Sacerdotum. _ From the temple to your home
May a thousand blessings come!
And a sweet concurring stream
Of all joys to join with them.

_Chorus Juvenum. _ Happy Day,
Make no long stay
Here
In thy sphere;
But give thy place to Night,
That she,
As thee,
May be
Partaker of this sight.
And since it was thy care
To see the younglings wed,
'Tis fit that Night the pair
Should see safe brought to bed.

_Chorus Senum. _ Go to your banquet then, but use delight,
So as to rise still with an appetite.
Love is a thing most nice, and must be fed
To such a height, but never surfeited.
What is beyond the mean is ever ill:
_'Tis best to feed Love, but not overfill_;
Go then discreetly to the bed of pleasure,
And this remember, _virtue keeps the measure_.

_Chorus Virginum. _ Lucky signs we have descri'd
To encourage on the bride,
And to these we have espi'd,
Not a kissing Cupid flies
Here about, but has his eyes
To imply your love is wise.

_Chorus Pastorum. _ Here we present a fleece
To make a piece
Of cloth;
Nor, fair, must you be both
Your finger to apply
To housewifery.
Then, then begin
To spin:
And, sweetling, mark you, what a web will come
Into your chests, drawn by your painful thumb.

_Chorus Matronarum. _ Set you to your wheel, and wax
Rich by the ductile wool and flax.
Yarn is an income, and the housewives' thread
The larder fills with meat, the bin with bread.

_Chorus Senum. _ Let wealth come in by comely thrift
And not by any sordid shift;
'Tis haste
Makes waste:
Extremes have still their fault:
_The softest fire makes the sweetest malt:
Who grips too hard the dry and slippery sand
Holds none at all, or little in his hand. _

_Chorus Virginum.