To the READER. Courteous Reader, _Thy grateful reception of our first Collection hath induced us to a second essay of the same nature; which, as we are confident, it is not inferioure to the former in worth, so we assure our selves, upon thy already experimented Candor, that it shall at least equall it in its fortunate acceptation. We serve up these Delicates by frugall Messes, as aiming at thy Satisfaction, not Saciety. But our designe being more upon thy judgement, than patience, more to delight thee, to detain thee in the portall of a tedious, seldome-read Epistle; we draw this displeasing Curtain, that intercepts thy (by this time) gravid, and almost teeming fancy, and subscribe,_ _R. P._ _Choice_ DROLLERY: SONGS _AND_ SONNETS. _The broken Heart._ 1. Deare Love let me this evening dye, Oh smile not to prevent it, But use this opportunity, Or we shall both repent it: Frown quickly then, and break my heart, That so my way of dying May, though my life were full of smart, Be worth the worlds envying. 2. Some striving knowledge to refine, Consume themselves with thinking, And some who friendship seale in wine Are kindly kill’d with drinking: And some are rackt on th’ Indian coast, Thither by gain invited, Some are in smoke of battailes lost, Whom Drummes not Lutes delighted. 3. Alas how poorely these depart, Their graves still unattended, Who dies not of a broken heart, Is not in death commended. His memory is ever sweet, All praise and pity moving, Who kindly at his Mistresse feet Doth dye with over-loving. 4. And now thou frown’st, and now I dye, My corps by Lovers follow’d, Which streight shall by dead lovers lye, For that ground’s onely hollow’d: [hallow’d] If Priest take’t ill I have a grave, My death not well approving, The Poets my estate shall have To teach them th’ art of loving. 5. And now let Lovers ring their bells, For thy poore youth departed; Which every Lover els excels, That is not broken hearted. My grave with flowers let virgins strow, For if thy teares fall neare them, They’l so excell in scent and shew, Thy selfe wilt shortly weare them. 6. Such Flowers how much will _Flora_ prise, That’s on a Lover growing, And watred with his Mistris eyes, With pity overflowing? A grave so deckt, well, though thou art [? will] Yet fearfull to come nigh me, Provoke thee straight to break thy heart, And lie down boldly by me. 7. Then every where shall all bells ring, Whilst all to blacknesse turning, All torches burn, and all quires sing, As Nature’s self were mourning. Yet we hereafter shall be found By Destiny’s right placing, Making like Flowers, Love under ground, Whose Roots are still embracing. _Of a Woman that died for love of a Man._