Let it no name of planets tell,

Fix'd stars or constellations;

For I am no Sir Sydrophel,
Nor none of his relations.

But carve thereon a spreading vine,
Then add two lovely boys;
Their limbs in am'rous folds entwine,
The type of future joys.

Cupid and Bacchus my saints are,
May drink and love still reign;
With wine I wash away my care,
And then to love again.

WHILST ON THOSE LOVELY LOOKS

GAZE.

JOHN WILMOT, LORD Rochester.

Whilst on those lovely looks I gaze,
To see a wretch pursuing,
In raptures of a blest amaze,
His pleasing happy ruin;
'Tis not for pity that I move;

His fate is too aspiring,

Whose heart, broke with a load of love,

Dies wishing and admiring.

But if this murder you'd forego,
Your slave from death removing,

Let me your art of charming know,
Or learn you mine of loving.

But whether life or death betide,
In love 'tis equal measure;
The victor lives with empty pride,
The vanquish'd die with pleasure.

FROM ALL UNEASY PASSIONS FREE.

JOHN SHEFfield, duke OF BUCKINGHAM,

Born about 1650-Died 1721

From all uneasy passions free,
Revenge, ambition, jealousy ;
Contented I had been too blest,
If love and you had let me rest.
Yet that dull life I now despise :

Safe from your eyes,

I fear'd no griefs, but then I found no joys.

Amidst a thousand kind desires;
Which beauty moves, and love inspires
Such pangs I feel of tender fear,

No heart so soft as mine can bear.
Yet I'll defy the worst of harms,

Such are your charms,

'Tis worth a life to die within your arms.

THE RECONCILEMENT.

JOHN SHEFfield, dukE OF BUCKINGHAM.

Come, let us now resolve at last
To live and love in quiet;
We'll tie the knot so very fast,
That time shall ne'er untie it

The truest joys they seldom prove,
Who free from quarrels live;
'Tis the most tender part of love,
Each other to forgive.

When least I seem'd concern'd, I took

No pleasure, nor no rest;

And when I feign'd an angry look,

Alas! I lov'd you best.

Own but the same to me, you'll find

How blest will be our fate;

Oh, to be happy, to be kind,
Sure never is too late.

SONG IN "THE ORPHAN."

THOMAS OTWAY.

Born 1651-Died 1685.

Come all ye youths whose hearts e'er bled

By cruel beauty's pride,

Bring each a garland on his head,

Let none his sorrows hide;

But hand in hand around me move,
Singing the saddest tales of love;
And see, when your complaints ye join,
If all your wrongs can equal mine.

The happiest mortal once was I,
My heart no sorrow knew ;
Pity the pain with which I die,
But ask not whence it grew;
Yet if a tempting fair you find,
That's very lovely, very kind,

Though bright as heav'n whose stamp she bears,
Think on my fate and shun her snares.

SONG AFTER A WEDDING.

THOMAS SOUTHERNE.

Born 1660-Died 1746.

The danger is over, the battle is past,

The nymph had her fears but she ventur'd at last;
She try'd the encounter, and when it was done,
She smil❜d at her folly, and own'd she had won.
By her eyes we discover the bride has pleas'd,
Her blushes become her, her passion is eas'd;
She dissembles her joy and affects to look down ;
If she sighs,—'tis for sorrow 'tis ended so soon.

Appear all you virgins, both aged and young,
All you, who have carried that burden too long,
Who have lost precious time, and you who are losing
Betray'd by your fears between doubting and chusing,

Draw nearer, and learn what will settle your mind;
You'll find yourselves happy when once you are kind.
Do but wisely resolve the sweet venture to run
You'll feel the loss little and much to be won,

[In the Fatal Marriage, &c.]

A LASS THERE LIVES UPON THE GREEN.

A lass there lives upon the green
Could I her picture draw;

A brighter nymph was never seen,
That looks and reigns a little queen,
And keeps the swains in awe.

Her eyes are Cupid's dart and wings,
Her eyebrows are his bow;

Her silken hair the silver strings

Which sure and swift destruction brings

To all the vale below.

If Pastorella's dawning light

Can warm, and wound us so :

Her noon will shine so piercing bright,
Each glancing beam will kill outright
And

every swain subdue.

[In Southerne's "Oroonoko," 1699, said there to be written by Sir Harry Sheers.]