The cunning Theif that lurkes for prize, At some dark corner watching lyes; So that heart-robbing God doth stand In the dark Lobbies, shaft in hand, To rifle me of what I hold More pretious farre then _Indian_ Gold. Black Eyes, &c. Oh powerful Negromantick Eyes, Who in your circles strictly pries, Will find that _Cupid_ with his dart, In you doth practice the blacke Art: And by th’ Inchantment I’me possest, Tryes his conclusion in my brest. Black Eyes, &c. Look on me though in frowning wise, Some kind of frowns become black eyes, As pointed Diamonds being set, Cast greater lustre out of Jet. Those pieces we esteem most rare, Which in night shadowes postur’d are. Darknesse in Churches congregates the sight, Devotion strayes in glaring light. Black Eyes, in your dark Orbs by changes dwell, My bane, or blisse, my Paradise or Hell. _CRVELTY._ We read of Kings, and Gods that kindly took A Pitcher fill’d with Water from the Brook. But I have dayly tendred without thanks, Rivers of tears that overflow their banks. A slaughtred Bull will appease angry Jove, A Horse the Sun, a Lamb the God of Love. But she disdains the spotlesse sacrifice Of a pure heart that at her Altar lyes: Vesta [i]’s not displeas’d if her chaste Urn Doe with repaired fuell ever burn; But my Saint frowns, though to her honoured name I consecrate a never dying flame: Th’ _Assyrian_ King did none i th’ furnace throw, But those that to his Image did not bow: With bended knees I dayly worship her, Yet she consumes her own Idolater. Of such a Goddesse no times leave record, That burnt the Temple where she was ador’d. _A Sonnet._ What ill luck had I, silly Maid that I am, To be ty’d to a lasting vow; Or ere to be laid by the side of a man, That woo’d, and cannot tell how; Down didle down, down didle me. Oh that I had a Clown that he might down diddle me, With a courage to take mine down. What punishment is that man worthy to have, That thus will presume to wedde, He deserves to be layd alive in his grave, That woo’d and cannot in bed; Down didle down[,] down didle me. Oh that I had a Lad that he might down didle me, For I feare I shall run mad. _The ~Doctors~ Touchstone._ I never did hold, all that glisters is Gold, Unless by the Touch it be try’d; Nor ever could find, that it was a true signe, To judge a man by the outside. A poor flash of wit, for a time may be fit To wrangle a question in Schools. Good dressing, fine cloathes, with other fine shews, May serve to make painted fools.