And eyes, that lent you all this grace;
Retire, retire, to your own place.
And as you move from that blest pair,
Let each heart kneel, and think a prayer,
That all, that can make up the glory
Of good and great may fill their story.

ST. PATRICK FOR IRELAND.

HANG CARE!

I NEITHER will lend nor borrow,
Old age will be here to-morrow;
This pleasure we are made for,
When death comes all is paid for:

1640.

No matter what's the bill of fare,
I'll take my cup, I'll take no care.
Be wise, and say you had warning,
To laugh is better than learning;
To wear no clothes, not neat is;
But hunger is good where meat is:

Give me wine, give me a wench,
And let her parrot talk in French.

It is a match worth the making,
To keep the merry-thought waking;
A song is better than fasting,
And sorrow's not worth the tasting:

Then keep your brain light as you can,
An ounce of care will kill a man.

TELL

ELL me tidings of my mother, Shepherds, and be Cupid's brother. Down from heaven we came together: With swan's speed came she not hither?

But what lady have I spied?
Just so was my mother eyed;
Such her smiles wherein I dwelt;
In those lips have I been felt;
Those the pillows of her breast,
Which gave Cupid so much rest:
'Tis she, 'tis she! make holiday,
Shepherds, carol, dance, and play.
'Tis Venus, it can be no other;
Cupid now has found his mother!

VICT

THE COMMON DOOM.

ICTORIOUS men of earth, no more
Proclaim how wide your empires are;

Though you bind in every shore,

And your triumphs reach as far
As night or day,

Yet you, proud monarchs, must obey,
And mingle with forgotten ashes, when
Death calls ye to the crowd of common men.

Devouring Famine, Plague, and War,
Each able to undo mankind,
Death's servile emissaries are;

Nor to these alone confined,
He hath at will

More quaint and subtle ways to kill;
A smile or kiss, as he will use the art,
Shall have the cunning skill to break a heart.

LOVE AND DEATH.

CHANGE, oh change your fatal bows,

Since neither knows

The virtue of each other's darts!
Alas, what will become of hearts!

If it prove

A death to love,

We shall find

Death will be cruel to be kind:

For when he shall to armies fly,

Where men think blood too cheap to buy

Themselves a name,

He reconciles them, and deprives
The valiant men of more than lives,
A victory and fame:

Whilst Love, deceived by these cold shafts, instead
Of curing wounded hearts, must kill indeed.

Take pity, gods! some ease the world will find To give young Cupid eyes, or strike Death blind: Death should not then have his own will,

And Love, by seeing men bleed, leave off to kill.

THE CONTENTION OF AJAX AND ULYSSES.

THE EQUALITY OF THE GRAVE.

*

THE glories of our blood and state
Are shadows, not substantial things;
There is no armour against fate;
Death lays his icy hand on kings:
Sceptre and crown

Must tumble down,

And in the dust be equal made

1659.

With the poor crooked scythe and spade.
Some men with swords may reap the field,
And plant fresh laurels where they kill;
But their strong nerves at last must yield;
They tame but one another still:
Early or late,

They stoop to fate,

And must give up their murmuring breath,
When they, pale captives, creep to death.

* This is said to have been a favourite song of Charles II.

The garlands wither on your brow,
Then boast no more your mighty deeds;
Upon Death's purple altar now

See, where the victor-victim bleeds:
Your heads must come

To the cold tomb,

Only the actions of the just

Smell sweet, and blossom in their dust.

SIR WILLIAM DAVENANT.

1605-1668.

[IF we cannot discover in the tedious poem of Gondibert any satisfactory evidence of that illustrious descent implied by the insinuation of Wood, the following songs might justify a suspicion of Davenant's poetical lineage. The character of Davenant's verse is by no means Shakesperean; but there is a spirit in these pieces not unworthy of such a paternity. They possess an energy

That like a trumpet makes the spirits dance.'

The bounding versification fills the ear with music; and they are distinguished by a breadth of treatment and knowledge of effect seldom so successfully displayed within such restricted limits.]

THE SIEGE OF RHODES.

WOMEN PREPARING FOR WAR.

ET us live, live! for, being dead,
The pretty spots,

Ribbons and knots,

And the fine French dress for the head,

No lady wears upon her

In the cold, cold bed of honour.

Beat down our grottos, and hew down our bowers,

Dig up our arbours, and root up our flowers;

Our gardens are bulwarks and bastions become; Then hang up our lute, we must sing to the drum.

Our patches and our curls,

So exact in each station,
Our powders and our purls,
Are now out of fashion.

Hence with our needles, and give us your spades;
We, that were ladies, grow coarse as our maids.
Our coaches have driven us to balls at the court,
We now must drive barrows to earth up the fort.

JEALOUSY.

THIS cursed jealousy, what is't?

'Tis love that has lost itself in a mist; 'Tis love being frighted out of his wits; "Tis love that has a fever got;

Love that is violently hot,

But troubled with cold and trembling fits.

'Tis yet a more unnatural evil:

'Tis the god of love, 'tis the god of love, possessed

with a devil.

'Tis rich corrupted wine of love, Which sharpest vinegar does prove;

From all the sweet flowers which might honey make, It does a deadly poison bring:

Strange serpent which itself doth sting!

It never can sleep, and dreams still awake;
It stuffs up the marriage-bed with thorns.

It gores itself, it gores itself, with imagined horns.

R

THE UNFORTUNATE LOVERS.

LOVE'S LOTTERY.

UN to love's lottery! Run, maids, and rejoice: When, drawing your chance, you meet your own choice;