But now my shame hath made me be
A butt for time to point at me,
And but a mark of misery.

But now in sorrow must I sit,

And pensive thoughts possess my breast;

My silly soul with cares is split,

And grief denies me wonted rest.

Come then, black night, and screen me round,
That I may never more be found,

Unless in tears of sorrow drown'd!

["From The British Miscellany,' where it is stated to be copied from an ancient MS." Geo. Ellis. I find it in a little collection called Westminster Drollery, published in 1671, p. 68.]

DULCINA.

As at noon Dulcina rested

In her sweet and shady bower,
Came a shepherd, and requested
In her lap to sleep an hour.
But from her look

A wound he took

So deep, that for a farther boon,

The nymph he prays;

Whereto she says,

Forego me now, come to me soon."

But in vain she did conjure him

To depart her presence so,

Having a thousand tongues t' allure him,

And but one to bid him go;

When lips invite,

And eyes delight,

And cheeks as fresh as rose in June,
Persuade delay,

66

What boots to say,

Forego me now come to me soon."

He demands, what time for pleasure
Can there be more fit than now?
She says-night gives love that leisure,
Which the day doth not allow.
He says the sight,

Improves delight;

Which she denies; " nights murky noon In Venus' plays

Makes bold," she says,

"Forego me now come to me soon."

But what promise, or profession,

From his hands could purchase scope?

Who would sell the sweet possession
Of such beauty for a hope?

Or for the sight

Of lingering night,

Forego the present joys of noon?

Tho' ne'er so fair

Her speeches were,

Forego me now, come to me soon?"

How at last agreed these lovers ?

She was fair, and he was young:

The tongue may tell what th' eye discovers, Joys unseen are never sung.

Did she consent

Or he relent?

Accepts he night, or grants she noon?
Left he her a maid,

Or not! she said,

Forego me now, come to me soon."

[This whimsical but beautiful song, is given somewhat out of its place-belonging as it does to an earlier period. Cayley has printed it as the composition of Raleigh, but Sir Walter's right to it is very questionable. Walton mentions it in the Angler, and Percy allowed it a niche in the Reliques of English Poetry. The Bishop remarks that "it is more ancient than the ballad of Robin Goodfellow."]

LOVE IN FANTASTIC TRIUMPH SAT.

APHRA BEHN.

Born about 1630-Died 1689.

Love in fantastic triumph sat,

Whilst bleeding hearts around him flow'd,
For whom fresh pains he did create,

And strange tyrannic power he shew’d.
From thy bright eyes he took his fires,
Which round about in sport he hurl'd;
But 'twas from mine he took desires,
Enough t' undo the amorous world.

From me he took his sighs and tears,
From thee his pride and cruelty,
From me his languishment and fears,
And every killing dart from thee ·

Thus thou, and I, the God have arm'd,
And set him up a deity;

But my poor heart alone is harm'd,

Whilst thine the victor is and free.

[Mrs. Aphra Behn was a dramatic writer of Charles the Second's day, but her plays are full of the licentiousness of the age, which happily soon after the pen of Jeremy Collier somewhat abated. Even Dryden, who was he observes himself " too much of a libertine in his poems,' complains in a letter to Mrs. Thomas (the Corinna of Curll), that Mrs. Behn's plays were full of loose writing, and brought scandal on the modesty of her sex. This is one of her best songs; according to Mr. Dyce," had it proceeded from the pen of Moore, it would have been admired in the present day." It appears in "Abdelazar, or the Moor's Revenge."]

MIRTILLO.

CHARLES COTTON.

Born 1630-Died 1687.

Ask not, why sorrow shades my brow;
Nor why my sprightly looks decay?
Alas! what need I beauty now,

Since he, that lov'd it, died to day.

Can ye have ears, and yet not know
Mirtillo, brave Mirtillo's slain?

Can

ye have eyes, and they not flow,
Or hearts that do not share my pain?

He's gone, he's gone! and I will go;
For in my breast such wars I have,
And thoughts of him perplex me so

That the whole world appears my grave.

But I'll go to him, though he lie

Wrapt in the cold, cold arms of death :
And under yon sad cypress tree,

I'll mourn, I'll mourn away my breath.

TO A FAIR YOUNG LADY, GOING OUT OF TOWN IN THE SPRING.

JOHN DRYDEN.

Born 1631-Died 1701.

Ask not the cause, why sullen Spring
So long delays her flowers to bear;
Why warbling birds forget to sing,

And winter storms invert the year :
Chloris is gone, and fate provides
To make it Spring where she resides.

Chloris is gone, the cruel fair;

She cast not back a pitying eye:
But left her lover in despair,

To sigh, to languish, and to die:
Ah, how can those fair eyes endure
To give the wounds they will not cure.

Great god of love, why hast thou made

A face that can all hearts command,
That all religions can invade,

And change the laws of every land?
Where thou hadst plac'd such power before,
Thou shouldst have made her mercy more.