I could but see thee yesterday Stung by a fretful bee; And I the javelin suck'd away, And heal'd the wound in thee. A thousand thorns and briars and stings, I have in my poor breast; Yet ne'er can see that salve which brings My passions any rest. As love shall help me, I admire How thou canst sit, and smile To see me bleed, and not desire To staunch the blood the while. If thou, compos'd of gentle mould, Art so unkind to me; What dismal stories will be told Of those that cruel be? _Admire_, wonder. 830. HIS LOSS. All has been plundered from me but my wit: Fortune herself can lay no claim to it. 831. DRAW AND DRINK. Milk still your fountains and your springs: for why? The more th'are drawn, the less they will grow dry. 833. TO OENONE. Thou say'st Love's dart Hath pricked thy heart; And thou dost languish too: If one poor prick Can make thee sick, Say, what would many do? 836. TO ELECTRA. Shall I go to Love and tell, Thou art all turned icicle? Shall I say her altars be Disadorn'd and scorn'd by thee? O beware! in time submit; Love has yet no wrathful fit: If her patience turns to ire, Love is then consuming fire. 837. TO MISTRESS AMY POTTER. Ay me! I love; give him your hand to kiss Who both your wooer and your poet is. Nature has precompos'd us both to love: Your part's to grant; my scene must be to move. Dear, can you like, and liking love your poet? If you say "Aye," blush-guiltiness will show it. Mine eyes must woo you, though I sigh the while: _True love is tongueless as a crocodile_. And you may find in love these different parts-- _Wooers have tongues of ice, but burning hearts_. 838. UPON A MAID. Here she lies, in bed of spice, Fair as Eve in Paradise: For her beauty it was such Poets could not praise too much. Virgins, come, and in a ring Her supremest requiem sing; Then depart, but see ye tread Lightly, lightly, o'er the dead. _Supremest_, last. 839. UPON LOVE. Love is a circle, and an endless sphere; From good to good, revolving here and there. 840. BEAUTY. Beauty's no other but a lovely grace Of lively colours flowing from the face. 841. UPON LOVE. Some salve to every sore we may apply; Only for my wound there's no remedy. Yet if my Julia kiss me, there will be A sovereign balm found out to cure me. 844. TO HIS BOOK. Make haste away, and let one be A friendly patron unto thee: Lest, rapt from hence, I see thee lie Torn for the use of pastery: Or see thy injur'd leaves serve well, To make loose gowns for mackerel: Or see the grocers in a trice, Make hoods of thee to serve out spice. 845. READINESS. The readiness of doing doth express No other but the doer's willingness. 846. WRITING.