Then a thousand, then another
Hundred, then unto the other
Add a thousand, and so more:
Till you equal with the store,
All the grass that Rumney yields,
Or the sands in Chelsea fields,
Or the drops in silver Thames,
Or the stars that gild his streams,
In the silent summer-nights,

When youths ply their stolen delights;
That the curious may not know
How to tell 'em as they flow,
And the envious, when they find
What their number is, be pined.

SONG.

IN "THE MASQUE OF BEAUTY."

So Beauty on the waters stood,
When Love had sever'd earth from flood!
So when he parted air from fire,
He did with concord all inspire!
And then a motion he them taught,

That elder than himself was thought.
Which thought was, yet, the child of earth,
For Love is elder than his birth.

EPITAPH ON ELIZABETH L. H. WOULD'ST thou hear what man can say In a little reader, stay.

Underneath this stone doth lie
As much beauty as could die:
Which in life did harbour give
To more virtue than doth live.
If at all she had a fault,
Leave it buried in this vault.
One name was Elizabeth,
The other let it sleep with death:
Fitter, where it died, to tell,

Than that it lived at all. Farewell!

A NYMPH'S PASSION.

I LOVE, and he loves me again,

Yet dare I not tell who;

For if the nymphs should know my swain,
I fear they'd love him too;
Yet if he be not known,

The pleasure is as good as none,
For that's a narrow joy is but our own.
I'll tell, that if they be not glad,
They yet may envy me;
But then if I grow jealous mad,
And of them pitied be,

It were a plague 'bove scorn:
And yet it cannot be forborn,

Unless my heart would, as my thought, be torn.

He is, if they can find him, fair,
And fresh and fragrant too,
As summer's sky, or purged air,
And looks as lilies do

That are this morning blown;

Yet, yet I doubt he is not known,

And fear much more, that more of him be shown.

But he hath eyes so round, and bright,
As make away my doubt,
Where Love may all his torches light,
Though hate had put them out:

But then, t' increase my fears,

What nymph soe'er his voice but hears, Will be my rival, though she have but ears.

I'll tell no more, and yet I love,

And he loves me; yet no
One unbecoming thought doth move
From either heart, I know;

But so exempt from blame,
As it would be to each a fame,

If love or fear would let me tell his name.

THE PICTURE OF THE BODY.
SITTING, and ready to be drawn,
What makes these velvets, silks, and lawn,
Embroideries, feathers, fringes, lace,
Where every limb takes like a face?

Send these suspected helps to aid
Some form defective, or decay'd;
This beauty, without falsehood fair,
Needs nought to clothe it but the air.

Yet something to the painter's view,
Were fitly interposed; so new:
He shall, if he can understand,
Work by my fancy, with his hand.
Draw first a cloud, all save her neck,
And, out of that, make day to break;
Till like her face it do appear,
And men may think all light rose there.

Then let the beams of that disperse
The cloud, and show the universe:
But at such distance, as the eye
May rather yet adore, than spy.

ON LUCY, COUNTESS OF BEDFORD. FROM HIS EPIGRAMS.

THIS morning, timely rapt with holy fire,
I thought to form unto my zealous Muse,
What kind of creature I could most desire,
To honour, serve, and love; as poets use.
I meant to make her fair, and free, and wise,
Of greatest blood, and yet more good than great;
I meant the day-star should not brighter rise,

Nor lend like influence from his lucent seat. I meant she should be courteous, facile, sweet, Hating that solemn vice of greatness, pride; I meant each softest virtue there should meet, Fit in that softer bosom to reside.

Only a learned, and a manly soul

I purposed her; that should, with even powers, The rock, the spindle, and the sheers control

Of Destiny, and spin her own free hours. Such when I meant to feign, and wish'd to see, My Muse bade, Bedford write, and that was she!

FROM "THE FOX."

VOLPONE, aided by his servant Mosca, cheating the visitants who bring him presents, each in the hope of being his heir.

Volp. Good morning to the day; and next, my gold!

Open the shrine, that I may see my saint.

[MOSCA withdraws the curtain, and discovers piles of gold, plate, jewels, dc. Hail the world's soul, and mine! more glad than is The teeming earth to see the long'd-for sun Peep through the horns of the celestial Ram, Am I, to view thy splendour darkening his; That lying here, amongst my other hoards, Show'st like a flame by night, or like the day Struck out of chaos, when all darkness fled Unto the centre. O thou son of Sol, But brighter than thy father, let me kiss, With adoration, thee, and every relic Of sacred treasure in this blessed room. Well did wise poets, by thy glorious name, Title that age which they would have the best; Thou being the best of things, and far transcending All style of joy, in children, parents, friends, Or any other waking dream on earth: Thy looks when they to Venus did ascribe, They should have given her twenty thousand

Cupids;

The price of souls; even hell, with thee to boot, Is made worth heaven. Thou art virtue, fame, Honour, and all things else. Who can get thee, He shall be noble, valiant, honest, wise

Mos. And what he will, sir. Riches are in fortune A greater good than wisdom is in nature.

Volp. True, my beloved Mosca. Yet I glory More in the cunning purchase of my wealth, Than in the glad possession, since I gain No common way; I use no trade, no venture: I wound no earth with ploughshares, fat no beasts,

Volt. But, Mosca

Mos. Age will conquer.

Volt. 'Pray thee, hear me:

Am I inscribed his heir for certain ?
Mos. Are you!

I do beseech you, sir, you will vouchsafe
To write me in your family. All my hopes
Depend upon your worship: I am lost,
Except the rising sun do shine on me.

Volt. It shall both shine, and warm thee, Mosca.
Mos. Sir,

I am a man, that hath not done your love
All the worst offices: here I wear your keys,
See all your coffers and your caskets lock'd,
Keep the poor inventory of your jewels,

Your plate and moneys; am your steward, sir,
Husband your goods here.

Volt. But am I sole heir?

Mos. Without a partner, sir; confirm'd this

morning:

The wax is warm yet, and the ink scarce dry Upon the parchment.

Volt. Happy, happy me!

By what good chance, sweet Mosca ?
Mos. Your desert, sir;

I know no second cause.

Volt. Thy modesty

Is not to know it; well, we shall requite it. [him.
Mos. He ever liked your course, sir; that first took
I oft have heard him say, how he admired
Men of your large profession, that could speak
To every cause, and things mere contraries,
Till they were hoarse again, yet all be law;
That, with most quick agility, could turn,
And return; make knots, and undo them;
Give forked counsel; take provoking gold
On either hand, and put it up: these men,
He knew, would thrive with their humility.
And, for his part, he thought he should be blest
To have his heir of such a suffering spirit,
So wise, so grave, of so perplex'd a tongue,
And loud withal, that would not wag, nor scarce
Lie still, without a fee; when every word
Your worship but lets fall, is a chequin !—
[Knocking without.
Who's that? one knocks; I would not have you
seen, sir,

And yet-pretend you came, and went in haste;
I'll fashion an excuse-and, gentle sir,
When you do come to swim in golden lard,
Up to the arms in honey, that your chin
Is born up stiff, with fatness of the flood,
Think on your vassal; but remember me :
I have not been your worst of clients.
Volt. Mosca!-

Corb. Not I his heir?

Mos. Not your physician, sir.

Corb. O, no, no, no;

I do not mean it.

Mos. No, sir, nor their fees

He cannot brook: he says, they flay a man,
Before they kill him.

Corb. Right, I do conceive you.

Mos. And then they do it by experiment; For which the law not only doth absolve them, But gives them great reward: and he is loth To hire his death, so.

Corb. It is true, they kill

With as much license as a judge.

Mos. Nay, more;

For he but kills, sir, where the law condemns, And these can kill him too.

I shall prevent him, yet. See, Mosca, look, Here, I have brought a bag of bright chequines, Will quite weigh down his plate.

Mos. [taking the bag.] Yea, marry, sir, This is true physic, this your sacred medicine; No talk of opiates, to this great elixir!

Corb. "Tis aurum palpabile, if not potabile.
Mos. It shall be minister'd to him, in his bowl.
Corb. Ay, do, do, do.

Mos. Most blessed cordial!

This will recover him.

Corb. Yes, do, do, do.

Mos. I think it were not best, sir.

Mos. All, sir; 'tis your right, your own; no man Can claim a part: 'tis yours without a rival, Decreed by destiny.

Corb. How, how, good Mosca ?

Mos. I'll tell you, sir. This fit he shall recover. Corb. I do conceive you.

Mos. And, on first advantage

Of his gain'd sense, will I re-importune him
Unto the making of his testament:
And show him this.

Corb. Good, good.
Mos. "Tis better yet,
If you will hear, sir.

[Pointing to the money.

Corb. Yes, with all my heart. [with speed; Mos. Now, would I counsel you, make home There, frame a will; whereto you shall inscribe My master your sole heir. Corb. And disinherit My son !