And drink the crystal stream Pleasant in tasting; Whig and whey whilst thou lust, And bramble-berries, Pie-lid and pastry-crust, Pears, plums, and cherries. Thy raiment shall be thin, Made of a weevil’s skin-- Yet all’s not worth a pin! Phillada flouts me. In the last month of May I made her posies; I heard her often say That she loved roses. Cowslips and gillyflowers And the white lily I brought to deck the bowers For my sweet Philly. But she did all disdain, And threw them back again; Therefore ’tis flat and plain Phillada flouts me. Fair maiden, have a care, And in time take me; I can have those as fair If you forsake me: For Doll the dairy-maid Laugh’d at me lately, And wanton Winifred Favours me greatly. One throws milk on my clothes, T’other plays with my nose; What wanting signs are those? Phillada flouts me. I cannot work nor sleep At all in season: Love wounds my heart so deep Without all reason. I ’gin to pine away In my love’s shadow, Like as a fat beast may, Penn’d in a meadow. I shall be dead, I fear, Within this thousand year: And all for that my dear Phillada flouts me. WILLIAM STRODE 1602-1645 _393._ _Chloris in the Snow_ I saw fair Chloris walk alone, When feather’d rain came softly down, As Jove descending from his Tower To court her in a silver shower: The wanton snow flew to her breast, Like pretty birds into their nest, But, overcome with whiteness there, For grief it thaw’d into a tear: Thence falling on her garments’ hem, To deck her, froze into a gem. THOMAS STANLEY 1625-1678 _394._ _The Relapse_ Turn away those cruel eyes, The stars of my undoing! Or death, in such a bright disguise, May tempt a second wooing. Punish their blind and impious pride, Who dare contemn thy glory; It was my fall that deified Thy name, and seal’d thy story. Yet no new sufferings can prepare A higher praise to crown thee; Though my first death proclaim thee fair, My second will unthrone thee. Lovers will doubt thou canst entice No other for thy fuel, And if thou burn one victim twice, Both think thee poor and cruel. THOMAS D’URFEY 1653-1723 _395._ _Chloe Divine_ Chloe’s a Nymph in flowery groves, A Nereid in the streams; Saint-like she in the temple moves, A woman in my dreams. Love steals artillery from her eyes, The Graces point her charms; Orpheus is rivalled in her voice, And Venus in her arms. Never so happily in one Did heaven and earth combine: And yet ’tis flesh and blood alone That makes her so divine. CHARLES COTTON 1630-1687 _396._ _To Cœlia_