Page 175
Madam,
Poems &c. written by Mr. Ed. Waller ... ; and printed by a copy of his own hand-writing ; all the lyrick poems in this booke were set by Mr. Henry Lawes ...
About this Item
- Title
- Poems &c. written by Mr. Ed. Waller ... ; and printed by a copy of his own hand-writing ; all the lyrick poems in this booke were set by Mr. Henry Lawes ...
- Author
- Waller, Edmund, 1606-1687.
- Publication
- London :: Printed by I.N. for Hu. Mosley ...,
- 1645.
- Rights/Permissions
-
This keyboarded and encoded edition of the work described above is co-owned by the institutions providing financial support to the Early English Books Online Text Creation Partnership. Searching, reading, printing, or downloading EEBO-TCP texts is reserved for the authorized users of these project partner institutions. Permission must be granted for subsequent distribution, in print or electronically, of this text, in whole or in part. Please contact project staff at eebotcp-info@umich.edu for further information or permissions.
- Cite this Item
-
"Poems &c. written by Mr. Ed. Waller ... ; and printed by a copy of his own hand-writing ; all the lyrick poems in this booke were set by Mr. Henry Lawes ..." In the digital collection Early English Books Online 2. https://name.umdl.umich.edu/A67344.0001.001. University of Michigan Library Digital Collections. Accessed April 30, 2024.
Pages
AS in some climes the warmer Sun,
Makes it full Summer ere the spring's begun,
And with ripe fruit the bending boughts can load,
Before the violets dare looke abroad:
So measure not by any common use,
The early love your brighter eyes produce.
When lately your fair hand, in womans weed,
Wrapt my glad head, I wish't me so indeed,
That hasty time might never make me grow,
Out of those favours you afford me now;
That I might ever such indulgence find,
And you not blush or thinke your self too kind,
Who now I feare while I these joyes express,
Begin to thinke how you may make them less:
The sound of love makes your soft heart affraide,
And guard it self, though but a child invade,
And innocently at your white breast throw
A dart as white, a Ball of new faln snow.