Poems written by the Right Honorable William earl of Pembroke, lord steward of his Majesties houshold. Whereof many of which are answered by way of repartee, by Sr Benjamin Ruddier, knight. With several distinct poems, written by them occasionally, and apart.

Description of a wisht Mistris.

NOt that I wish my Mistris, Or more or less then what she is, Write I these lines; for 'tis too late, Rules to prescribe unto my fate.

But yet as tender stomacks call For some choice meats that bear not all; So a queazie Lover may impart What Mistris 'tis must take his heart.

First, I must have her richly sped With Natures blossoms, white and red; For flaming hearts will quickly dye, That have no fuel from the eye.

Yet this alone will never win, Except some treasure lye within; For where the spoyl's not worth the stay, Men raise the siege, and march away.

I'de have her wise enough to know When, and to whom a Grace to show; For she that doth at random chuse, She will her choice as soon refuse.

And yet methinks I'de have her mind T' a flowing curtesie inclin'd, And tender-hearted as a Mayd, Yet pitty onely when I pray'd.

And I could wish her true to be, (Mistake me not) I mean to me; She that loves me, and loves one more Wil love the Kingdom o're and o're.

And I would have her full of wit, So she know how to huswife it; But she whose insolence makes her dare To cry her wit, wil sell more ware.

Some other things delight will bring, As if she dance, or play, or sing; If hers be safe, what though her parts Catch ten thousand forreign hearts.

But let me see, should she be proud, A little pride must be allow'd: Each amorous Boy wil sport & prate Too freely, where he sees no state.

I car'd not much if I let down Sometimes a chiding or a frown; But if she wholly quench desire, 'Tis hard to kindle a new fire,

To smile, to toy, 'tis not amiss Sometimes to interpose a kiss, But do not cloy; Sweet things are good And pleasant, but are naught for food.

But stay! Nature hath over-writ my Art In her, to whom I offer up my heart: And Evening-Passengers shall sooner trace The wanton beams that dance on Thames smooth face; And find the track where once the foot did stray On the moist Sands, which tides have washt away; Then men shall know my heart, or find her spot, If a revolt of hers procure it not.