TO A FRIEND.

Nor with much gazing on her face, Sir,

Do e'er rise hungry from the place : WHETHER these lines do find you out,

She's fair, &c.
Putting or clearing of a doubt;
(Whether Predestination,

A gentle round fill'd to the brink,
Or reconciling
Three in One,

To this and t'other friend I drink;
Or the unriddling how men die,

And if 'tis nam'd another's hcalth, And live at once eternally,

I never make it her's by stealth :
Now take you up) know 'tis decreed

She's fair, &c.
You straight bestride the college steed.
Leave Socinus and the schoolmen,

Blackfriars to me, and old Whitehall, (Which Jack Bond swears do but fool men).

Is even as much as is the fall And come to town; 'tis fit you shew

Of fountains on a pathless grove, Yourself abroad, that men may know

And nourishes as much as my love : (Whate'er some learned men have guest)

She's fair, &c.
That oracles are not yet ceas’d:
There you shall find the wit and wine

I visit, talk, do business, play,
Flowing alike, and both divine:

And for a need laugh out a day : Dishes, with names not known in books,

Who does not thus in Cupid's school, And less amongst the college cooks,

He makes not love, but plays the fool :
With sauce so poignant that you need

She's fair, &c.
Not stay till hunger bids you feed.
The sweat of learned Jonson's brain,
And gentle Shakespear's easier strain
A hackney-coach conveys you to,
In spite of all that rain can do:

A SONG.
And for your eighteen-pence you sit
The lord and judge of all fresh wit.

Hast thou seen the down in the air,
News in one day as much we've here

When wanton blasts have tost it? As serves all Windsor for a year;

Or the ship on the sea, And which the carrier brings to you,

When ruder winds have crost it? After thas here been found not true.

Hast thou mark'd the crocodiles weeping, Then think what company's design'd

Or the foxes sleeping ? To meet you here, men so refin’d,

Or hast thou view'd the peacock in his pride, Their very common talk at board,

Or the dove by his bride, Makes wise, or mad, a young court lord :

When he courts for his leachery? And makes him capable to be

Oh! so fickle, oh! so vain, oh! so false, so false is she !
Umpire in's father's company.
Where no disputes nor forc'd defence
Of a man's person for his sense
Take up the time; all strive to be
Masters of truth, as victory :

DETRACTION EXECRATED.
And were you come, I'd boldly swear
A synod might as eas'ly err:

Thou vermin slander, bred in abject minds,
Of thoughts impure, by vile tongues animate,
Canker of conversation ! could'st thou find
Nought but our love whereon to shew thy hate ?

Thou never wert, when we two were alone;
THE CARELESS LOVER.

What canst thou witness then ? thou base dull aid

Wast useless in our conversation, NEVER believe me if I love,

Where each meant more than could by both be said. Or know what 'tis, or mean to prove;

Whence hadst thou thy intelligence, from earth ? And yet in faith I lie, I do,

That part of us ne'er knew that we did love ;
And she's extremely handsome too;

Or from the air: our gentle sighs had birth
She's fair, she's wondrous fair,

From such sweet raptures as to joy did move:
But I care not who knows it,

Our thoughts, as pure as the chaste morning's breath,
E’er I'll die for love, I fairly will forego it. When from the night's cold arms it creeps away,

Were cloth'd in words; and maiden's blush that hath This heat of hope, or cold of fear,

More purity, more innocence than they. My foolish heart could never bear:

Nor from the water could'st thou have this tale, One sigh imprison'd ruins more

No briny tear has furrow'd her smooth cheek;
Than earthquakes have done heretofore :

And I was pleas’d, I pray what should he ail
She's fair, &c.

That had her love, for what else could he seek?

We short'ned days to moments by Love's art, When I am hungry I do eat,

Whilst our two souls in amorous ecstasy And cut no fingers 'stead of meat ;

Perceiv'd no passing time, as if a part

Our love had been of still eternity;

Curst be th' officious tongue that did address Much less could have it from the purer fire,

Thee to her ears, to ruin my content: Our heat exhales no vapour from coarse sense, May it one minute taste such happiness, Such as are hopes, or fears, or fond desire;

Deserving lost unpitied it lament ! Our mutual love itself did recompense :

I must forbear her sight, and so repay
Thou hast no correspondence had in heav'n,

In grief, those hours joy short'ned to a dream;
And th' elemental world, thou see'st, is free: Each minute I will lengthen to a day,
Whence hadst thou then this, talking monster ? even And in one year outlive Methusalem.
From hell, a harbour fit for it and thee.

GEORGE WITHER-A. D. 1588-1667.

FROM THE FOURTH ECLOGUE OF THE SHEPHERD'S HUNTING. Roget (G. Wither) exhorts his friend Willy (William Browne, author of Britannia's Pastorals) not to give

over writing verses on account of some partial detraction which he had met with ; describes the comfort which he himself derives from the Muse. The scene is in the Marshalsea, where Wither was imprisoned for his Satires, and where Browne is supposed to visit him. Willy. For a song I do not pass

And the vapours that do breathe 'Mongst my friends, but what, alas !

From the earth's gross womb beneath, Should I have to do with them,

Scem they not with their black strcams That my music do contemn?

To pollute the sun's bright beams; Roget. What's the wrong?

And yet vanish into air, Willy.

A slight offence, Leaving it unblemish'd, fair ? Wherewithal I can dispense ;

So, my Willy, shall it be But hereafter, for their sake,

With Detraction's breath on thee. To myself I'll music make,

It shall never rise so high Roget. What, because some clown offends,

As to stain thy poesy. Wilt thou punish all thy friends ?

As that sun doth oft exhale Willy. Honest Roget, understand me,

Vapours from each rotten vale, Those that love me may command me;

| Poesy so sometime drains But thou know'st I am but young,

Gross conceits from muddy brains, And the pastoral I sung

Mists of envy, fogs of spite, Is by some supposed to be

'Twixt men's judgments and her light. (By a strain) too high for me ;

But so much her power may do, So they kindly let me gain

That she can dissolve them too. Not my labour for my pain.

If thy verse do bravely tower, Trust me, I do wonder why

As she makes wing, she gets power : They should me my own deny.

Yet the higher she doth soar, Though I'm young, I scorn to flit

She's affronted still the more, On the wings of borrow'd wit.

Till she to the high'st hath past, I'll make my own feathers rear me

Then she rests with fame at last. Whither others' cannot bear me.

Let nought therefore thee affright, Yet I'll keep my skill in store,

But make forward in thy flight.
Till I've seen some winters inore.

For, if I could match thy rhyme,
Roget. But in earnest mean'st thou so ?

To the very stars I'd climb;
Then thou art not wise, I trow.

There begin again, and fily, That's the ready way to blot

Till I reach'd eternity. All the credit thou hast got.

But alas ! my Muse is slow, Rather in thy age's prime

For thy place she flags too low; Get another start of time;

Yea, the more's her hapless fate, And make those that so fond be,

Her short wings were clipt of late ; Spite of their own dullness, see,

And poor I, her fortune ruing, That the sacred Muses can

Am myself put up a muing. Make a child in years a man.

But, if I my cage can rid, Envy makes their tongues now run,

I'll fly where I never did. More than doubt of what is done.

And, though for her sake I'm crost, See'st thou not in clearest days,

Though my best hopes I have lost, Oft thick fogs cloud heav'n's rays;

And knew she would make my trouble

WALLER-A. D. 1605-87.

ON MY LADY D. SYDNEY'S PICTURE.

PHEBUS AND DAPHNE. Such was Philoclea, and such Dorus' flame ! THYRSI3, a youth of the inspired train, The matchless Sydney that immortal frame

Fair Sacharissa lov'd, but lov'd in vain : Of perfect beauty on two pillars plac'd :

Like Phæbus sung the no less am'rous boy ; Not his high fancy could one pattern, grac'd Like Daphne she, as lovely, and as coy! With such extremes of excellence, compose ;

With numbers he the flying nymph pursucs, Wonders so distant in one face disclose!

With numbers such as Phæbus' self might use ! Such cheerful modesty, such humble state,

Such is the chase when Love and Fancy leads, Moves certain love, but with as doubtful fate O'er craggy mountains, and through flow'ry meads; As when, beyond our greedy reach, we see

Invok'd to testify the lover's care,
Inviting fruit on too sublime a tree.

Or form some image of his cruel fair,
All the rich flow'rs through his Arcadia found, Urg'd with his fury, like a wounded deer,
Amaz'd we see in this one garland bound.

O'er these he fled; and now approaching near, Had but this copy (which the artist took

Had reach'd the nymph with his harmonious lay, From the fair picture of that noble book)

Whom all his charms could not incline to stay. Stood at Kalander's, the brave friends had jarr'd, Yet what he sung in his immortal strain, And, rivals made, th' ensuing story marr'd.

Though unsuccessful, was not sung in vain : Just Nature, first instructed by his thought,

All but the nymph that should redress his wrong, In his own house thus practis'd what he taught. Attend his passion, and approve his song. This glorious piece transcends what he could think, Like Phæbus, thus acquiring unsought praise, So much his blood is nobler than his ink!

He catch'd at love, and fill’d his arms with bays.

AT PENSHURST.
Had Dorothea liv'd when mortals made
Choice of their deities, this sacred shade
Had held an altar to her pow'r that gave
The peace and glory which these alleys have;
Embroider'd so with flowers where she stood,
That it became a garden of a wood.
Her presence has such more than human grace,
That it can civilize the rudest place;
And beauty too, and order, can impart,
Where Nature ne'er intended it, nor art.
The plants acknowledge this, and her admire,
No less than those of old did Orpheus' lyre.
If she sit down, with tops all-tow'rds her bow'd,
They round about her into arbours crowd;
Or if she walk, in even ranks they stand,
Like some well marshall'd and obsequious band.
Amphion so made stones and timber leap
Into fair figures from a confus'd heap :
And in the symmetry of her parts is found
A pow'r like that of harmony in sound.

Ye lofty beeches ! tell this matchless dame,
That if together ye fed all one flame,
It could not equalize the hundredth part
Of what her eyes have kindled in my heart !
Go, Boy, and carve this passion on the bark
Of yonder tree, which stands the sacred mark
Of noble Sydney's birth; when such benign,
Such more than mortal-making stars did shine,
That there they cannot but for ever prove
The monument and pledge of humble love;
His humble love whose hope shall ne'er rise higher
Than for a pardon that he dares admire.

OF LOVE.
ANGER, in hasty words or blows,

Itself discharges on our foes ;
And sorrow too finds some relief
In tears, which wait upon our grief :
So ev'ry passion, but fond love,
Unto its own redress does move;
But that alone the wretch inclines
To what prevents his own designs ;
Makes him lament, and sigh, and weep,
Disorder'd, tremble, fawn, and creep;
Postures which render him despis'd,
Where he endeavours to be priz'd.
For women (born to be control'd)
Stoop to the forward and the bold;
Affect the haughty and the proud,
The gay, the frolic, and the loud.
Who first the gen'rous steed opprest,
Not kneeling did salute the beast;
But with high courage, life, and force,
Approaching, tam'd th’ unruly horse.

Unwisely we the wiser East
Pity, supposing them opprest
With tyrants' force, whose law is will,
By which they govern, spoil, and kill :
Each nymph, but moderately fair,
Commands with no less rigour here.
Should son brave Turk, that walks among
His twenty lasses, bright and young,
And beckons to the willing dame,
Preferr'd to quench his present flame,
Behold as many gallants here,
With moulest guise and silent fear,