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There dyed this gallant quean,

Such was her greatest gains : For murder in Polonia,

Was Barnwell hang'd in chains.


Lo! here's the end of youth,

That after harlots haunt; Who in the spoil of other men,

About the streets do flaunt.

180 VII.


These beautiful stanzas were written by GEORGE WITHER, of whom some account was given in the former part of this Volume : see the Song intitled The Shepherds RESOLUTION, Book II. Song XXI. In the first Edition of this work only a small fragment of this Sonnet was inserted. It was afterwards rendered more complete and entire by the addition of five Stanzas more, extracted from Wither's pastoral poem, intitled, “ The Mistress of Philarete," of which this Song makes a part. It is now given still more correct and perfect by comparing it with another copy, printed by the author in his improved edition of “ The Shepherd's Hunting," 1620, Svo.

Hence away, thou Syren, leave me,

Pish! unclaspe these wanton armes ;
Sugred words can ne'er deceive me,
(Though thou prove a thousand charmes).

Fie, fie, forbeare ;

No common snare
Can ever my affection chaine:

Thy painted baits,

And poore deceits,
Are all bestowed on me in vaine.


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I'me no slave to such, as you be;

Neither shall that snowy brest, Rowling eye, and lip of ruby

Ever robb me of my rest :

Goe, goe, display

Thy beautie's ray
To some more-soone enamour'd swaine :

Those common wiles

Of sighs and smiles
Are all bestowed on me in vaine.



I have elsewhere vowed a dutie;

Turne away thy tempting eye: Shew not me a painted beautie;

These impostures I defie :

My spirit lothes

Where gawdy clothes
And fained othes may love obtaine :

I love her so,

Whose looke sweares No; That all


labours will be vaine.


Can he prize the tainted posies,

Which on every brest are worne ; That may plucke the virgin roses

From their never-tuuched thorne ?

I can goe rest

On her sweet brest,
That is the pride of Cynthia's traine:




Then stay thy tongue;

Thy mermaid song
Is all bestowed on me in vaine.



Hee's a foole, that basely dallies,

Where each peasant mates with him : Shall I haunt the thronged vallies,

Whilst ther's noble hils to climbe?

No, no, though clownes

Are scar'd with frownes,
I know the best can but disdaine :
And those Ile

prove :
So will thy love
Be all bestowed on me in vaine.



I doe scorne to vow a dutie,

Where each lustfull lad may wode : Give me her, whose sun-like beautie

Buzzards dare not soare unto :

Shee, shee it is

Afoords that blisse
For which I would refuse no paine:

But such as you,

Fond fooles, adieu ;
You seeke to captive me in vaine,


Leave me then, you Syrens, leave me;

Seeke no more to worke my harmes :

Craftie 65

Craftie wiles cannot deceive me,

Who am proofe against your charmes :

You labour may

To lead astray
The heart, that constant shall remaine :

And I the while

Will sit and smile
To see you spend your time in vaine.


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