Where others love and praise my verses, still Thy long black thumb-nail marks them out for ill: A fellon take it, or some whitflaw come For to unslate or to untile that thumb! But cry thee mercy: exercise thy nails To scratch or claw, so that thy tongue not rails: Some numbers prurient are, and some of these Are wanton with their itch; scratch, and 'twill please. _Fellon_, a sore, especially in the finger. _Whitflaw_, or whitlow. 174. UPON THE SAME. I ask'd thee oft what poets thou hast read, And lik'st the best. Still thou reply'st: The dead. I shall, ere long, with green turfs cover'd be; Then sure thou'lt like or thou wilt envy me. 175. JULIA'S PETTICOAT. Thy azure robe I did behold As airy as the leaves of gold, Which, erring here, and wandering there, Pleas'd with transgression ev'rywhere: Sometimes 'twould pant, and sigh, and heave, As if to stir it scarce had leave: But, having got it, thereupon 'Twould make a brave expansion. And pounc'd with stars it showed to me Like a celestial canopy. Sometimes 'twould blaze, and then abate, Like to a flame grown moderate: Sometimes away 'twould wildly fling, Then to thy thighs so closely cling That some conceit did melt me down As lovers fall into a swoon: And, all confus'd, I there did lie Drown'd in delights, but could not die. That leading cloud I follow'd still, Hoping t' have seen of it my fill; But ah! I could not: should it move To life eternal, I could love. _Pounc'd_, sprinkled. 176. TO MUSIC. Begin to charm, and, as thou strok'st mine ears With thy enchantment, melt me into tears. Then let thy active hand scud o'er thy lyre, And make my spirits frantic with the fire. That done, sink down into a silvery strain, And make me smooth as balm and oil again. 177. DISTRUST. To safeguard man from wrongs, there nothing must Be truer to him than a wise distrust. And to thyself be best this sentence known: _Hear all men speak, but credit few or none_. 178. CORINNA'S GOING A-MAYING. Get up, get up for shame, the blooming morn Upon her wings presents the god unshorn. See how Aurora throws her fair Fresh-quilted colours through the air: Get up, sweet slug-a-bed, and see The dew bespangling herb and tree. Each flower has wept and bow'd toward the east Above an hour since: yet you not dress'd; Nay! not so much as out of bed? When all the birds have matins said And sung their thankful hymns, 'tis sin, Nay, profanation to keep in, Whereas a thousand virgins on this day Spring, sooner than the lark, to fetch in May.