SONG.

1.

You powerful Gods, if I must be
An injured offring to Loves Deity,
Grant my revenge, this plague on men,
That women ne'er may love agen.

Then I'l with joy submit unto my fate,
Which by your justice gives their empire date.

2.

Depose that proud insulting boy,

Who most is pleased when he can most destroy.
O let the world no longer governed be

By such a blind and childish Deity:

For if you Gods be in your power severe,

We shall adore you, not from love, but fear.

3.

But if you'll his divinity maintain,

O're men, false men, confine his tort'ring reign;
And when their hearts loves greatest torments prove,
Let that not pity, but our laughter move.

Thus scorned and lost to all their wishes aim,
Let Rage, Despair, and Death, then end their flame.

From Marcelia, or the Treacherous Friend, a Tragicomedy, by Mrs. F. C. Boothby. 1670.

TOBACCO.

TOBACCO.

TOBACCOS a Musician,
And in a pipe delighteth;

It descends in a close,

Through the organs of the nose,

With a rellish that inviteth.

This makes me sing so ho, so ho boyes,
Ho boyes sound I loudly,

Earth neer did breed

Such a jovial weed,
Whereof to boast so proudly.

TOBACCO is a Lawyer,

His pipes do love long cases,
When our braines it enters,
Our feete do make indentures;

While we seale with stamping paces,

This makes me sing, &c.

TOBACCOS a Physician,

Good both for sound and sickly ;

'Tis a hot perfume,

That expells cold rheume,

And makes it flow downe quickly,

This makes me sing, &c.

TOBACCO is a Traveller,

Come from the Indies hether;

It passed sea and land,

Ere it came to my hand,

And scaped the wind and weather.

This makes me sing, &c.

TOBACCO

TOBACCO is a Critticke,

That still old paper turneth,
Whose labour and care,

Is as smoke in the aire,

That ascends from a rag when it burneth.
This makes me sing, &c.

TOBACCOS an ignis fatuus
A fat and fyrie vapour,
That leads men about
Till the fire be out,
Consuming like a taper.
This makes me sing, &c.
TOBACCO is a Whyffer,

And cries huff snuff with furie,

His pipes, his club and linke,

Hes the wiser that does drinke;

Thus armed I fear not a furie.

This makes me sing, so ho, so ho, boyes,

Ho boyes sound I loudly;

Earth nere did breed

Such a jovial weed,

Whereof to boast so proudly.

From TEXNOTAMIA, or the Marriage of the Arts, a Comedy, by Barten Holiday. 1618.

SONG.

TO HIS LUTE.

And then sweete muse, from whence there flowes

Wordes able to expresse our ill,

Teach me to warble out my woes,
And with a sigh each accent fill.

Infuse my breast with doleful straines,
Whose heavy note may speake my paines.
Oh let me sigh, and sighing weepe,
Till night deprive my woes with sleepe.

The pleasing murmurers of the ayre,
That gently fanne each moving thing,
I being heard, straight doe repayre,
And beare a burden whilst I sing;
An heavy burden, doleful song,
The fathers griefe, the subjects wrong.
O let me sigh, and sighing weepe,
Till night beguiles my woes with sleepe.

The grieved FLORA hangs the head
Of every youthful plant and tree;
And flowry pleasures are starke dead,
At my lamenting melody.

Then all yon muses keepe my straine,
To reach the depth of bitter paine.
Oh let me sigh, and sighing weepe,
Till night beguiles my woes with sleepe.

Methinkes I heare the singing spheares,
Tune their melodious straines to mine,
The deawie clouds dissolve in teares,
As if they grieved to see me pine.
Thus each thing joynes to helpe my moane,
Thus seldom come true sighs alone.

Then let me sigh, and sighing weepe,

Till night beguiles my woes with sleepe.

From the Raging Turke, or Bajazet the Second, a Tragedy, by Thomas Goffe. 1631.

SONG.

SONG.

Though little be the God of Love,

Yet his arrows mighty are,

And his victories above

What the valiant reach by war.
Nor are his limits with the skie,
Ore the milky way he'll fly,
And sometimes wound a Deity
Apollo once the Python slew,
But a keener arrow flew

From Daphnes eye, and made a wound,
For which the God no balsome found.
One smile of Venus too did more
On Mars than armies could before:

If a warme fit thus pull him downe,
How will she shake him with a frown.
Thus Love can fiery spirits tamne,

And when he please cold rocks inflame.

From Cupid and Death; a Masque; a pri

vate Entertainment, by T. S.

1659.

SONG.

Victorious men of earth no more

Proclaime how wide your empires are.

Though you bind on every shore,

And your triumphs reach as far

As night or day;

Yet you proud monarchs must obey,
And mingle with forgotten ashes, when

Death call ye to the croud of common men.