Upon the autumn or the spring, And spare us neither fruit nor flower; Could the resolve of love's neglect OF ENGLISH VERSE. POETS may boast, as safely vain, Their works shall with the world remain: Both bound together, live or die, The verses and the prophecy. But who can hope his line should long Last in a daily-changing tongue? While they are new, envy prevails, And, as that dies, our language fails. When architects have done their part, Time, if we use ill-chosen stone, Soon brings a well-built palace down. Poets, that lasting marble seek, Chaucer his sense can only boast, Years have defac'd his matchless strain, The beauties which adorn'd that age, This was the generous poet's scope, Verse, thus design'd, has no ill fate, SONG. WHILE I listen to thy voice, Calls my flitting soul away. Peace, Chloris, peace! or singing die, That together you and I To heaven may go; For all we know Of what the blessed do above, Is that they sing, and that they love. WILLIAM HABINGTON, Was born in 1605, of a Roman Catholic family, and educated at Paris and St. Omers. His literary accomplishments, and particularly his historical knowledge, recommended him to the favour of Charles I. at whose command he composed his " Observations on History," in one volume, 8vo. and a "History of Edward IV." in which, Wood says, his father, Thomas Habington, had a considerable hand. He also wrote a tragi-comedy called "The Queen of "Arragon," 1640; and a small volume of poems under the title of "Castara." He died in 1654. SONG. FINE young folly, though you were Yet you ne'er could touch my heart; Only with your sex to fool You're not worth the serious part. When I sigh and kiss your hand, Then dilate on my desires, Swear the sun ne'er shot such fires, When I eye your curl or lace, And your virtue doth begin To grow scrupulous of my sin, Therefore, Madam, wear no cloud, Yet though truth has this confess'd, When I next begin to court, Bedlam! this is pretty sport. |