With flaming hornes the Bull now brings the yeare,
Melt doe the horride mountaines' helmes of snow,
The siluer flouds in pearlie channells flow,
The late-bare woods greene anadeams doe weare;
The nightingall, forgetting winter's woe,
Calls vp the lazie morne her notes to heare;
Those flowrs are spred which names of princes beare,
Some red, some azure, white, and golden grow;
Here lowes a heifer, there bea-wailing strayes
A harmlesse lambe, not farre a stag rebounds,
The sheepe-heards sing to grazing flockes sweet layes,
And all about the ecchoing aire resounds.
Hills, dales, woods, flouds, and euery thing doth change,
But shee in rigour, I in loue am strange.

IN THE WHIM OF THE MOMENT .

'Tis true the marks of many years
Upon my wrinkled front appears,
Yet have I no such idle fears
This will my fortune spoil:

Gold still some happiness bestows,
E'en where no youthful ardour glows;
For proof, dear girl, take these rouleaus,
And give me a sweet smile.

II.

'Tis true upon my haggard face
No marks of beauty can you trace,
Nor wears my figure ought of grace
To ensure the lover's bliss?

Yet am I no such horrid fright
But that bank notes may set things right,
Take then these bills all drawn at sight,
And give me a sweet kiss.

III.

'Tis true I know not to be kind,
And that within my harden'd mind
No more a jewel can you find
Than beauty in my face:

But one within this casket here
May make amends, its lustre's clear,
Nor shall I think I've sold it dear
Paid by a sweet embrace.