THE

TREE.

Chofe the flourishing'ft tree in all the park,

I cut my love into his gentle bark,

And in three days, behold! 'tis dead : My very written flames fo violent be,

They 've burnt and wither'd-up the tree.

How fhould I live myfelf, whofe heart is found
Deeply graven every where

With the large hiftory of many a wound,

Larger than thy trunk can bear?
With art as ftrange as Homer in the nut,
Love in my heart has volumes put.

What a few words from thy rich ftock did take
The leaves and beauties all,

As a strong poifon with one drop does make
The nails and hairs to fall:

Love (I fee now) a kind of witchcraft is,
Of characters could ne'er do this.

Pardon, ye birds and nymphs, who lov'd this fhade;
And pardon me, thou gentle tree;

I thought her name would thee have happy made,
And bleffed omens hop'd from thee :

"Notes of my love, thrive here," faid I," and grow; "And with ye let my love do fo.”

Alas, poor youth! thy love will never thrive!
This blafted tree predeftines it;

Go, tie the dismal knot (why should'st thou live?)
And, by the lines thou there haft writ,
Deform'dly hanging, the fad picture be
To that unlucky history.

'T

IS a ftrange kind of ignorance this in you!
That you your victories should not spy,
Victories gotten by your eye!

That your bright beams, as those of comets do,
Should kill, but not know how, nor who!

That truly you my idol might appear,

Whilft all the people fmell and fee

The odorous flames I offer thee,

Thou fitt'ft, and doft not fee, nor smell, nor hear,
Thy conftant, zealous worshiper.

They fee 't too well who at my fires repine;

Nay, th' unconcern'd themselves do prove
Quick-ey'd enough to fpy my love;

Nor does the caufe in thy face clearlier fhine,
Than the effect appears in mine.

Fair infidel by what unjust decree

Muft I, who with such restless care

Would make this truth to thee appear,

Muft I, who preach it, and pray for it, be
Damn'd by thy incredulity?

T

I, by thy unbelief, am guiltless slain :

Oh, have but faith, and then, that you
May know that faith for to be true,
It fhall itself by' a miracle maintain,

And raise me from the dead again!

Meanwhile my hopes may feem to be o'erthrown;
But lovers' hopes are full of art,

And thus difpute-That, fince my heart,
Though in thy breast, yet is not by thee known,
Perhaps thou may'st not know thine own.

OME, let's go on, where love and youth does call;
I've seen too much, if this be all.

Alas! how far more wealthy might I be
With a contented ignorant poverty !

To fhew fuch ftores, and nothing grant,
Is to enrage and vex my want.

For love to die an infant 's leffer ill,
Than to live long, yet live in childhood still.

We 'ave both fat gazing only, hitherto,
As man and wife in picture do;

The richest crop of joy is still behind,
And he who only fees, in love, is blind.
So, at first, Pygmalion lov'd,

But th' amour at last improv'd;

The ftatue' itself at last a woman grew,
And fo at last, my dear, fhould you do too.
X 4

Beauty

Beauty to man the greatest torture is,
Unless it lead to farther blifs,

Beyond the tyrannous pleasures of the eye;
It grows too ferious a cruelty,

Unless it heal, as well as ftrike:

I would not, falamander-like,

In fcorching heats always to live defire,
But, like a martyr, país to heaven through fire.

Mark how the lufty fun falutes the spring,
And gently kiffes every thing!

His loving beams unlock each maiden flower,
Search all the treasures, all the fweets devour:
Then on the earth, with bridegroom-heat,
He does ftill new flowers beget.

The fun himself, although all eye he be,
Can find in love more pleasure than to fee.

I

THE IN CURABLE.

Try'd if books would cure my love, but found
Love made them nonfenfe all;

I 'apply'd receipts of bufinefs to my wound,
But ftirring did the pain recall.

As well might men who in a fever fry,

Mathematic doubts debate;

As well might men who mad in darkness lie,
Write the dispatches of a state.

I try'd

I try'd devotion, fermons, frequent prayer,
But thofe did worse than useless prove;
For prayers are turn'd to fin, in those who are
Out of charity, or in love.

I try'd in wine to drown the mighty care;
But wine, alas! was oil to th' fire:

Like drunkards' eyes, my troubled fancy there
Did double the defire.

I try'd what mirth and gaiety would do,
And mix'd with pleasant companies;
My mirth did graceless and infipid grow,
And 'bove a clinch it could not rife.

Nay, God forgive me for 't! at last I try'd,
'Gainst this fome new defire to ftir,
And lov'd again, but 'twas where I efpy'd
Some faint refemblances of her.

The phyfic made me worse, with which I ftrove
This mortal ill t' expel;

As wholesome medicines the difeafe improve,
There where they work not well.

HONOUR.

HE loves, and the confeffes too;

SH

There's then, at last, no more to do :

The happy work 's entirely done;

Enter the town which thou hast won;

The