240. TO HIS BOOK.
Thou art a plant sprung up to wither never,
But like a laurel to grow green for ever.
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.
