52

    What dost thou meane to Cheate me of my Heart,
    To take all Mine, and giue me none againe? 
    Or haue thine Eyes such Magike, or that Art,
    That what They get, They euer doe retaine? 
    Play not the Tyrant, but take some Remorse,
    Rebate thy Spleene, if but for Pitties sake;
    Or Cruell, if thou can’st not; let vs scorse,
    And for one Piece of Thine, my whole heart take. 
    But what of Pitty doe I speake to Thee,
    Whose Brest is proofe against Complaint or Prayer? 
    Or can I thinke what my Reward shall be
    From that proud Beauty, which was my betrayer? 
      What talke I of a Heart, when thou hast none? 
      Or if thou hast, it is a flinty one.

61

    Since there ’s no helpe, Come let vs kisse and part,
    Nay, I haue done:  You get no more of Me,
    And I am glad, yea glad withall my heart,
    That thus so cleanly, I my Selfe can free,
    Shake hands for euer, Cancell all our Vowes,
    And when we meet at any time againe,
    Be it not scene in either of our Browes,
    That We one iot of former Loue reteyne;
    Now at the last gaspe of Loues latest Breath,
    When his Pulse fayling, Passion speechlesse lies,
    When Faith is kneeling by his bed of Death,
    And Innocence is closing vp his Eyes,
      Now if thou would’st, when all haue giuen him ouer,
      From Death to Life, thou might’st him yet recouer.

ODES

[from the Edition of 1619]

TO HIMSELFE AND THE HARPE

And why not I, as hee
That’s greatest, if as free,
(In sundry strains that striue,
Since there so many be)
Th’ old Lyrick kind reuiue?

I will, yea, and I may;
Who shall oppose my way? 
For what is he alone,
That of himselfe can say,
Hee’s Heire of Helicon? 10

APOLLO, and the Nine,
Forbid no Man their Shrine,
That commeth with hands pure;
Else be they so diuine,
They will not him indure.

For they be such coy Things,
That they care not for Kings,
And dare let them know it;
Nor may he touch their Springs,
That is not borne a Poet. 20

Pyreneus, King The Phocean_ it did proue, of_ Phocis, Whom when foule Lust did moue, attempting to Those Mayds vnchast to make, rauish the Muses. Fell, as with them he stroue,
                    His Neck and iustly brake.

That instrument ne’r heard,
Strooke by the skilfull Bard,
It strongly to awake;
But it th’ infernalls skard,
And made Olympus quake. 30

Sam. lib. 1.  As those Prophetike strings
cap. 16.  Whose sounds with fiery Wings,
                      Draue Fiends from their abode,
                    Touch’d by the best of Kings,
                      That sang the holy Ode.