True, a new mistresse now I chase,
The first foe in the field;
And with a stronger faith embrace
A sword, a horse, a shield.

Yet this inconstancy is such,
As you too shall adore;

I could not love thee, deare, so much,
Lov'd I not honour more.

["Lovelace," says Wood "made his amours to a gentlewoman of great beauty and fortune named Lucy Sacheverel, whom he usually called Lux casta; but she upon a strong report that he was dead of his wound received at Dunkirk, (where he had brought a regiment for the service of the French King,) soon after married." Athenæ Oxonienses by Bliss, Vol. III. col. 462.]

Wood's

THE SCRUTINIE.

RICHARD LOVELACE.

1

Why should you swear I am forsworn,
Since thine I vow'd to be?

Lady it is already morn,

And 'twas last night I swore to thee
That fond impossibility.

Have I not lov'd thee much and long,
A tedious twelve hours space?
I must all other beauties wrong,
And rob thee of a new embrace;
Could I still dote upon thy Face.

Not, but all joy in thy browne haire,
By others may be found;

But I must search the black and faire
Like skillfull Minerallists that sound
For treasure in un-plowed-up ground.

Then if when I have lov'd my round,
Thou prov'st the pleasant she;
With spoyles of meaner Beauties crown'd,
I laden will return to thee,

Ev'n sated with Varietie.

[The following description of a beauty, from " Amyntor's Grove,"

a poem by the same author is full of true poetry.

Her breath like to the whispering wind
Was calm as thought, sweet as her mind;
Her lips like coral gates kept in
The perfume and the pearl within ;

Her eyes a double flaming torch

That always shine and never scorch;
Herself the Heaven in which did meet

The All of bright, of fair and sweet.

As she walks "close by the lips of a clear stream,"
flowers bequeath

At once the incense of their breath.

The head of the Poet prefixed to this volume is taken from a very fine painting preserved in Dulwich College.]

WHY SO PALE.

SIR JOHN SUCKLING.

Born 1613-Died 1641.

Why so pale and wan, fond lover?

Prithee, why so pale?

Will, when looking well can't move her,

Looking ill prevail ?

Prithee why so pale?

Why so dull and mute young Sinner?

Prithee why so mute?

Will, when speaking well can't win her,

Saying nothing do't?

Prithee why so mute.

Quit, quit, for shame this will not move,

This cannot take her;

If of herself she will not love,
Nothing can make her—
The Devil take her.

1

[This Song is sung by Orsames in Suckling's "Aglaura." It contains says Orsames," a little foolish counsel, I gave a friend of mine four or five years ago, when he was falling into a consumption."]

SEND ME BACK MY HEART.

SIR JOHN SUCKLING.

I prythee send me back my heart,
Since I cannot have thine:

For if from yours you will not part,
Why then should'st thou have mine?

Yet now I think on't, let it lie,
To find it, were in vain :
For thou'st a thief in either eye
Wou'd steal it back again.

Why should two hearts in one breast lie,
And yet not lodge together?

O Love, where is thy Sympathy,
If thus our breasts thou sever.

But Love is such a mystery

I cannot find it out:

For when I think I'm best resolv'd
I then am in most doubt.

Then farewell care, and farewell woe

I will no longer pine:

For I'll believe I have her heart

As much as she has mine.

[George Ellis tells us that "the grace and elegance of Suckling's Songs and Ballads are inimitable."]

TO CYNTHIA, ON CONCEALMENT OF HER BEAUTY.

SIR FRANCIS KINASTON.

Born about 1616.

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!

Do not conceal those breasts of thine,
More snow-white than the Apennine;
Lest, if there be like cold and frost,
The lily be for ever lost!

Do not conceal that fragrant scent,
Thy breath, which to all flowers hath lent
Perfumes; lest, it being supprest,

No spices grow in all the East!

Do not conceal thy heavenly voice,

Which makes the hearts of Gods rejoice;

Lest, music hearing no such thing,

The nightingale forget to sing!

Do not conceal, nor yet eclipse,

Thy pearly teeth with coral lips;
Lest, that the seas cease to bring forth
Gems which from thee have all their worth!