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But true flames my poor heart pierc❜d,
When her eyes on mine she turn'd:
So a real wound I took

For my counterfeited look.

None who loves not, then, make shew:

Love's as ill deceiv'd as fate;

Fly the boy, he'll cog and woo,

Mock him, and he wounds thee straight.

Ah! who dally boast in vain;

False love wants not real pain,

LOVE ONCE, LOVE EVER.

SHALL I, hopeless, then pursue

A fair shadow that still flies me? Shall I still adore and woo

A proud heart that does despise me?

I a constant love may so,

But, alas! a fruitless, shew.

Whilst these thoughts my soul possess,

Reason passion would o'ersway,

Bidding me my flames suppress,
Or divert some other way;
But what reason would pursue,
my heart runs counter to.

That

So a pilot, bent to make

Search for some unfound-out land, Does with him the magnet take, Sailing to the unknown strand; But that (steer which way he will) To the loved north points still.

[Extract from "the Sun-rise."]

THOU youthful goddess of the morn,
Whose blush they in the east adore,
Daughter of Phoebus, who before
Thy all-enlightening sire art born!
Haste, and restore the day to me,
That my love's beauteous object I may
see!

Too much of time the night devours;

The cock's shrill voice calls thee again: Then quickly mount thy golden wain, Drawn by the softly-sliding hours,

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And make apparent to all eyes

With what enamel thou dost paint the skies.

Ah, now I see the sweetest dawn!

Thrice welcome to my longing sight! Hail, divine beauty, heavenly light; I see thee through yon cloud of lawn Appear, and as thy star does glide, Blanching with rays the east on every side!

Dull silence, and the drowsy king
Of sad and melancholy dreams,
Now fly before thy cheerful beams,

The darkest shadows vanquishing:

The owl, that all the night did keep

A hooting, now is fled, and gone to sleep.

But all those little birds, whose notes
Sweetly the listening ear enthrall,
To the clear water's murmuring fall
Accord their disagreeing throats;
The lustre of that greater star

Praising, to which thou art but harbinger.

With holy reverence inspir'd,
When first the day renews its light,

The earth, at so divine a sight,
Seems as if all one altar fir'd,

Reeking with perfumes to the skies,

Which she presents, her native sacrifice.

The humble shepherd, to his rays
Having his rustic homage paid,
And to some cool retired shade
Driven his bleating flocks to graze,
Sits down, delighted with the sight
Of that great lamp, so mild, so fair, so bright.

The bee through flowery gardens goes,

Buzzing, to drink the morning's tears,
And from the early lily bears
A kiss commended to the rose,

And, like a wary messenger,

Whispers some amorous story in her ear.*
&c. &c. &c.

The remainder of this poem would now be thought forced and unnatural.

SIR FRANCIS KINASTON,

Author of "Leoline and Sydanis," and "Cynthiades," 1641, son of Sir Edward Kinaston, knt. of Otely in Shropshire, became gentleman-commoner of Oriel College, 1601, took his master's degree in Cambridge, and returned to Oxford 1611. Thence he went to Court, was knighted in 1618, and afterwards made esquire of the body of Charles I. He was the first regent of the academy called the Museum Minerva, 1635. He printed this year two books of a Latin translation of Chaucer's Troilus and Cresseid; and died 1642, or there. abouts, says Wood, who adds: "This is the person who 66 by experience falsified the alchymist's report, that a hen "being fed for certain days with gold, beginning when Sol 66 was in Leo, should be converted into gold, and should 66 lay golden eggs; but indeed became very fat."

Do not conceal thy radiant eyes,
The star-light of serenest skies;
Lest, wanting of their heavenly light,
They turn to chaos' endless night!

Do not conceal those tresses fair,
The silken snares of thy curl'd hair;
Lest, finding neither gold nor ore,
The curious silk-worm work no more!

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