Her eyes the glow-worm lend thee, The shooting stars attend thee; And the elves also, Whose little eyes glow Like the sparks of fire, befriend thee. No Will-o'-th'-Wisp mislight thee, Nor snake or slow-worm bite thee; But on, on thy way Not making a stay, Since ghost there's none to affright thee. Let not the dark thee cumber: What though the moon does slumber? The stars of the night Will lend thee their light Like tapers clear without number. Then, Julia, let me woo thee, Thus, thus to come unto me; And when I shall meet Thy silv'ry feet My soul I'll pour into thee. 620. TO SIR CLIPSEBY CREW. Give me wine, and give me meat, To create in me a heat, That my pulses high may beat. Cold and hunger never yet Could a noble verse beget; But your bowls with sack replete. Give me these, my knight, and try In a minute's space how I Can run mad and prophesy. Then, if any piece prove new And rare, I'll say, my dearest Crew, It was full inspired by you. 621. GOOD LUCK NOT LASTING. If well the dice run, let's applaud the cast: _The happy fortune will not always last_. 622. A KISS. What is a kiss? Why this, as some approve: The sure, sweet cement, glue, and lime of love. 623. GLORY. I make no haste to have my numbers read: _Seldom comes glory till a man be dead_. 624. POETS. Wantons we are, and though our words be such, Our lives do differ from our lines by much. 625. NO DESPITE TO THE DEAD. Reproach we may the living, not the dead: _'Tis cowardice to bite the buried_. 626. TO HIS VERSES. What will ye, my poor orphans, do When I must leave the world and you? Who'll give ye then a sheltering shed, Or credit ye when I am dead? Who'll let ye by their fire sit, Although ye have a stock of wit Already coin'd to pay for it? I cannot tell, unless there be Some race of old humanity Left, of the large heart and long hand, Alive, as noble Westmorland, Or gallant Newark, which brave two May fost'ring fathers be to you. If not, expect to be no less Ill us'd, than babes left fatherless. _Westmorland_, _Newark_, see Notes. 627. HIS CHARGE TO JULIA AT HIS DEATH. Dearest of thousands, now the time draws near That with my lines my life must full-stop here. Cut off thy hairs, and let thy tears be shed Over my turf when I am buried. Then for effusions, let none wanting be, Or other rites that do belong to me; As love shall help thee, when thou dost go hence Unto thy everlasting residence. _Effusions_, the "due drink-offerings" of the lyric "To his lovely mistresses" (634). 628. UPON LOVE.