Look in my book, and herein see
Life endless signed to thee and me.
We o'er the tombs and fates shall fly;
While other generations die.
907. UPON M. WILLIAM LAWES, THE RARE MUSICIAN.
Should I not put on blacks, when each one here
Comes with his cypress and devotes a tear?
Should I not grieve, my Lawes, when every lute,
Viol, and voice is by thy loss struck mute?
Thy loss, brave man! whose numbers have been hurl'd,
And no less prais'd than spread throughout the world.
Some have thee call'd Amphion; some of us
Nam'd thee Terpander, or sweet Orpheus:
Some this, some that, but all in this agree,
Music had both her birth and death with thee.
Blacks, mourning garments.
908. A SONG UPON SILVIA.
From me my Silvia ran away,
And running therewithal
A primrose bank did cross her way,
And gave my love a fall.
But trust me now, I dare not say
What I by chance did see;
But such the drap'ry did betray
That fully ravished me.
909. THE HONEYCOMB.
If thou hast found an honeycomb,
Eat thou not all, but taste on some:
For if thou eat'st it to excess,
That sweetness turns to loathsomeness.
Taste it to temper, then 'twill be
Marrow and manna unto thee.