c places
Drive thence whate'er encumbers
The list'ning to my numbers.

Honour be to the Graces!
Who do with sweet embraces,
Show they are well contented
With what I have invented.

Worship be to the Graces!
Who do from sour faces,
And lungs that would infect me,
For evermore protect me.

778. A HYMN TO THE MUSES.

Honour to you who sit
Near to the well of wit,
And drink your fill of it.

Glory and worship be
To you, sweet maids, thrice three,
Who still inspire me,

And teach me how to sing
Unto the lyric string
My measures ravishing.

Then while I sing your praise,
My priesthood crown with bays
Green, to the end of days.

779. UPON JULIA'S CLOTHES.

Whenas in silks my Julia goes,
Then, then, methinks, how sweetly flows
The liquefaction of her clothes.

Next, when I cast mine eyes and see
That brave vibration each way free;
O how that glittering taketh me!

780. MODERATION.

In things a moderation keep:
_Kings ought to shear, not skin their sheep_.

781. TO ANTHEA.

Let's call for Hymen, if agreed thou art;
_Delays in love but crucify the heart_.
Love's thorny tapers yet neglected lie:
Speak thou the word, they'll kindle by-and-bye.
The nimble hours woo us on to wed,
And Genius waits to have us both to bed.
Behold, for us the naked Graces stay
With maunds of roses for to strew the way:
Besides, the most religious prophet stands
Ready to join, as well our hearts as hands.
Juno yet smiles; but if she chance to chide,
Ill luck 'twill bode to th' bridegroom and the bride.
Tell me, Anthea, dost thou fondly dread
The loss of that we call a maidenhead?
Come, I'll instruct thee. Know, the vestal fire
Is not by marriage quench'd, but flames the higher.

_Maunds_, baskets.
_Fondly_, foolishly.

782. UPON PREW, HIS MAID.

In this little urn is laid
Prudence Baldwin, once my maid:
From whose happy spark here let
Spring the purple violet.

783. THE INVITATION.

To sup with thee thou did'st me home invite;
And mad'st a promise that mine appetite
Should meet and tire on such lautitious meat,
The like not Heliogabalus did eat:
And richer wine would'st give to me, thy guest,
Than Roman Sylla pour'd out at his feast.
I came, 'tis true, and looked for fo