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But when the least regard I show
To fools who thus advise,
May I be dull enough to grow
Most miserably wise!

Before 1680.

SIR CHARLES SEDLEY

SONG

Not, Celia, that I juster am

Or better than the rest;
For I would change each hour like them,
Were not my heart at rest.

But I am tied to very thee,

By ev'ry thought I have;
Thy face I only care to see,
Thy heart I only crave.

All that in woman is adored
In thy dear self I find

For the whole sex can but afford
The handsome and the kind.

Why then should I seek further store
And still make love anew?

When change itself can give no more,
'Tis easy to be true.

Between 1668 and 1687.

1750.

They are becalmed in clearest days,
And in rough weather tost;
They wither under cold delays,
Or are in tempests lost.

1702.

LOVE STILL HAS SOMETHING OF THE SEA

Love still has something of the sea,
From whence his mother rose;

No time his slaves from love can free,
Nor give their thoughts repose.

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Which though I see,
I can't get free:
She deceiving,
I believing,-

What need lovers wish for more?

Between 1668 and 1687.

APHRA BEHN

1702.

SONG

Love in fantastic triumph sate,

Whilst bleeding hearts around him flowed,
For whom fresh pains he did create,

And strange tyrannic power he showed:
From thy bright eyes he took the fires

Which round about in sport he hurled;
But 't was from mine he took desires

Enough t' undo the amorous world.
From me he took his sighs and tears,

From thee his pride and cruelty;
From me his languishments and fears,
And every killing dart from thee:
Thus thou and I the god have armed,
And set him up a deity;

But my poor heart alone is harmed,
Whilst thine the victor is, and free.

The time that is to come is not;
How can it, then, be mine?

1677.

JOHN WILMOT, EARL OF ROCHESTER

LOVE AND LIFE

All my past life is mine no more;
The flying hours are gone,
Like transitory dreams given o'er,
Whose images are kept in store
By memory alone.

15

5

10

15

5

The present moment's all my lot;
And that, as fast as it is got,

Phyllis, is only thine.

Then talk not of inconstancy,
False hearts, and broken vows;
If I by miracle can be
This live-long minute true to thee,
'Tis all that Heaven allows.

1680.

A SONG

Absent from thee, I languish still;

Then ask me not when I return?
The straying fool 't will plainly kill

To wish all day, all night to mourn.
Dear, from thine arms then let me fly,

That my fantastic mind may prove
The torments it deserves to try,

That tears my fixed heart from my love.
When, wearied with a world of woe,
To thy safe bosom I retire,

Where love, and peace, and truth does flow,
May I, contented, there expire;

Lest, once more wandering from that heaven,
I fall on some base heart unblest,
Faithless to thee, false, unforgiven,
And lose my everlasting rest.

JOHN OLDHAM

1680.

FROM

TO THE MEMORY OF MR. CHARLES MORWENT
Thy soul within such silent pomp did keep
As if humanity were lulled asleep;
So gentle was thy pilgrimage beneath,

Time's unheard feet scarce make less noise,
Or the soft journey which a planet goes:

10

15

5

10

15

5

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Life seemed all calm as its last breath,
A still tranquillity so hushed thy breast,
As if some halcyon were its guest,
And there had built her nest;
It hardly now enjoys a greater rest.

As that smooth sea which wears the name of Peace
Still with one even face appears,

And feels no tides to change it from its place,
No waves to alter the fair form it bears;

As that unspotted sky

Where Nile does want of rain supply

Is free from clouds, from storm is ever free;
So thy unvaried mind was always one,

And with such clear serenity still shone,
And caused thy little world to seem all temp'rate zone.

WILLIAM CONGREVE

AMORET

Fair Amoret is gone astray:

Pursue and seek her, ev'ry lover!
I'll tell the signs by which you may
The wand'ring shepherdess discover.

1710.

Coquet and coy at once her air,

Both studied though both seem neglected;
Careless she is, with artful care,
Affecting to seem unaffected.

With skill her eyes dart ev'ry glance,

Yet change so soon you'd ne'er suspect 'em;
For she'd persuade they wound by chance,
Though certain aim and art direct 'em.

She likes herself, yet others hates

For that which in herself she prizes;
And while she laughs at them, forgets
She is the thing that she despises.
Before 1700.

1710.

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