402. CLOTHES DO BUT CHEAT AND COZEN US. Away with silks, away with lawn, I'll have no scenes or curtains drawn; Give me my mistress as she is, Dress'd in her nak'd simplicities; For as my heart e'en so mine eye Is won with flesh, not drapery. 403. TO DIANEME. Show me thy feet; show me thy legs, thy thighs; Show me those fleshy principalities; Show me that hill where smiling love doth sit. Having a living fountain under it; Show me thy waist, then let me therewithal, By the assention of thy lawn, see all. 404. UPON ELECTRA. When out of bed my love doth spring, 'Tis but as day a-kindling; But when she's up and fully dress'd, 'Tis then broad day throughout the east. 405. TO HIS BOOK. Have I not blest thee? Then go forth, nor fear Or spice, or fish, or fire, or close-stools here. But with thy fair fates leading thee, go on With thy most white predestination. Nor think these ages that do hoarsely sing The farting tanner and familiar king, The dancing friar, tatter'd in the bush; Those monstrous lies of little Robin Rush, Tom Chipperfeild, and pretty lisping Ned, That doted on a maid of gingerbread; The flying pilchard and the frisking dace, With all the rabble of Tim Trundell's race (Bred from the dunghills and adulterous rhymes), Shall live, and thou not superlast all times. No, no; thy stars have destin'd thee to see The whole world die and turn to dust with thee. _He's greedy of his life who will not fall Whenas a public ruin bears down all._ _The farting tanner_, etc., see Note. 406. OF LOVE. I do not love, nor can it be Love will in vain spend shafts on me; I did this godhead once defy, Since which I freeze, but cannot fry. Yet out, alas! the death's the same, Kill'd by a frost or by a flame. 407. UPON HIMSELF. I dislik'd but even now; Now I love I know not how. Was I idle, and that while Was I fir'd with a smile? I'll to work, or pray; and then I shall quite dislike again. 408. ANOTHER. Love he that will, it best likes me To have my neck from love's yoke free. 412. THE MAD MAID'S SONG. Good-morrow to the day so fair, Good-morning, sir, to you; Good-morrow to mine own torn hair, Bedabbled with the dew. Good-morning to this primrose too, Good-morrow to each maid That will with flowers the tomb bestrew Wherein my love is laid. Ah! woe is me, woe, woe is me, Alack and well-a-day! For pity, sir, find out that bee Which bore my love away. I'll seek him in your bonnet brave, I'll seek him in your eyes; Nay, now I think th'ave made his grave I' th' bed of strawberries. I'll seek him there; I know ere this The cold, cold earth doth shake him; But I will go or send a kiss By you, sir, to awake him.