1
Doth wound a heart,
We hide our grief
And shun relief,
The smart increaseth on that score;5
For wounds unsearcht but rankle more.
2
And tell our tale,
Men are in pain
For us again;10
So, neither speaking doth become
The lover's state, nor being dumb.
3
Then thus think I:
Love is the fart10
Of every heart;
It pains a man when 'tis kept close,
And others doth offend when 'tis let loose.
A SESSION OF THE POETS
A session was held the other day,
And Apollo himself was at it, they say,
The laurel that had been so long reserv'd,
Was now to be given to him best deserv'd.
And5
Therefore the wits of the town came thither,
'Twas strange to see how they flocked together,
Each strongly confident of his own way,
Thought to gain the laurel away that day.
There was Selden, and he sate hard by the chair;10
Wenman not far off, which was very fair;
Sands with Townsend, for they kept no order;
Digby and Shillingsworth a little further.
And
There was Lucan's translator too, and he15
That makes God speak so big in 's poetry;
Selwin and Waller, and Bartlets both the brothers;
Jack Vaughan and Porter, and divers others.
