Maids! dance as nimbly as your blood,
Which I see swell a purple flood,
In emulation of that good

The bride possesseth: for I deem
What she enjoys will be the theme,
This night, of every virgin's dream.

But envy not their blest content,
The hasty night is almost spent,
And they of Cupid will be shent.

The sun is now ready to ride;
Sure, 'twas the morning I espied,
Or 'twas the blushing of the bride.

See how the lusty bridegroom's veins
Swell, 'till the active torrent strains
To break those o'erstretch'd azure chains!

And the fair bride, ready to cry
To see her pleasant loss so nigh,
Pants like the sealed pigeon's eye!

Put out the torch. Love loves no lights: Those that perform his mystic rites

Must pay their orisons by nights.

Nor can that sacrifice be done
By any priest or nun alone,

But when they both are met in one.

Now, you that taste of Hymen's cheer,
See that your lips do meet so near
That cockles might be tutor❜d there.

And let the whisperings of your love
Such short and gentle murmurs prove,
As they were lectures to the dove.

And in such strict embraces twine,
As if you read unto the vine,
The ivy, and the columbine.

Thence may there spring many a pair
Of sons and daughters strong and fair.—
How soon the gods have heard my pray'r!

Methinks already I espy

The cradles rock, the babies cry,

And drowsy nurses lullaby.

SIR ASTON COKAIN

Published" Choice Poems of several sorts, with three new "Plays," 1667, duodecimo; (Vide Gentleman's Magazine for 1797) a volume of more than 600 pages, which may perhaps be consulted with advantage by those who search after anecdotes of contemporary characters, or pictures of their manners. The following appeared the most advantageous specimen of his poetry.

He was born at Ashbourn in the Peak of Derbyshire, 1608; educated at both the Universities, especially Cambridge; and having continued for some time at the Inns of Court for fashion's sake, (says Wood) travelled with Sir. K. Digby; and married on his return. He lived a studious life in the country, and, having suffered in the king's cause, died at Derby, 1683.

TO PLAUTIA.

AWAY, fond thing! tempt me no more!

I'll not be won with all thy store!

I can behold thy golden hair,
And for the owner nothing care:
Thy starry eyes can look upon,

And be mine own when I have done:

Thy cherry ruby lips can kiss, And for fruition never wish: Can view the garden of thy cheeks, And slight the roses there as leeks : Can hear thee sing with all thine art, Without enthralling of mine heart: My liberty thou canst not wrong With all the magick of thy tongue : Thy warm snow-breasts and I can see, And neither sigh nor wish for thee: Behold thy feet, which we do bless For bearing so much happiness, Yet they at all should not destroy My strong preserved-liberty: Could see thee naked, as at first Our parents were, when both uncurs'd, And with my busy searching eyes View strictly thy hid rarities;

Yet after such a free

survey,

From thee, no lover, go away.

For thou art false, and wilt be so:
I else no other fair would woo.
Away therefore, tempt me no more;
I'll not be won with all thy store.

VOL. III.

SIR RICHARD FANSHAW,

Was born in 1607; was employed in several offices of trust by Charles I. and Charles II. and died ambassador at Madrid in June, 1666. His writings consist principally of translations, viz. The Pastor Fido of Guarini; a play from the Spanish; and a Latin metrical translation of Fletcher's "Faithful Shepherdess," under the Italian title of "La "Fida Pastora."

The following extract is taken from his poems, published with "Il Pastor Fido," 1648 and 1676. The four first lines are part of another sonnet.

THOU blushing rose, within whose virgin leaves
The wanton wind to sport himself presumes,
Whilst from their rifled wardrobe he receives
For his wings purple, for his breath perfumes !

Blown in the morning, thou shalt fade ere noon: What boots a life which in such haste forsakes thee?

Thou 'rt wondrous frolic, being to die so soon,

And passing proud a little colour makes thee.