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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:

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 :

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;

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

Ten times more than ten times double ; I should love and keep her too, Spite of all the world could do. For, though banish'd from my flocks, And confined within these rocks, Here I waste away the light, And consume the sullen night, She doth for my comfort stay, And keeps many cares away. Though I miss the flowery fields, With those sweets the spring-tide yields ; Though I may not see those groves, Where the shepherds chaunt their loves, And the lasses more excel Than the sweet-voiced Philomel; Though of all those pleasures past Nothing now remains at last But remembrance (poor relief) That more makes than mends my grief ; She's my mind's companion still, Maugre envy's evil will; Whence she should be driven too, Were't in mortals' power to do. She doth tell me where to borrow Comfort in the midst of sorrow; Makes the desolatest place To her presence be a grace ; And the blackest discontents Be her fairest ornaments. In my former days of bliss Her divine skill taught me this, That from every thing I saw I could some invention draw, And raise pleasure to her height Through the meanest object's sight. By the murmur of a spring, Or the least bough's rustling, By a daisy whose leaves spread Shut when Titan gocs to bed, Or a shady bush or tree, She could more infuse in me

Than all Nature's beauties can In some other wiser man. By her help I also now Make this churlish place allow Some things that may sweeten gladness In the very gall of sadness. The dull loneness, the black shade, That these hanging vaults have made ; The strange music of the waves, Beating on these hollow caves ; This black den which rocks emboss, Overgrown with eldest moss ; The rude portals, which give light More to terror than delight; This my chamber of Neglect, Wall'd about with Disrespect : From all these, and this dull air, A fit object for despair, She hath taught me by her might To draw comfort and delight. Therefore, thou best earthly bliss, I will cherish thee for this; Poesy, thou sweet's content That e'er heaven to mortals lent, Though they as a trifle leave thee, Whose dull thoughts cannot conceive thee; Though thou be to them a scorn, Who to nought but earth are born; Let my life no longer be Than I am in love with thee. Though our wise ones call it madness, Let me never taste of sadness, If I love not thy madd'st fits Above all their greatest wits. And though some too secming holy Do account thy raptures folly, Thou dost teach me to contemn What make knaves and fools of them.

WALLER-A. D. 1605-87.


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.

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.

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,

All to one female idol bend,
While her high pride does scarce descend
To mark their follies, he would swear
That these her guard of eunuchs were,
And that a more majestic queen,
Or humbler slaves, he had not seen.

All this with indignation spoke,
In vain I struggled with the yoke
Of mighty Love: that conqu’ring look,
When next beheld, like lightning strook
My blasted soul, and made me bow
Lower than those I pity'd now.

So the tall stag, upon the brink Of some smooth stream about to drink, Surveying there his armed head, With shame remembers that he fled The scorned dogs, resolves to try The combat next; but if their cry Invades again his trembling ear, He strait resumes his wonted care, Leaves the untasted spring behind, And, wing'd with fear, outflies the wind.

His dying groans, his last breath, shakes our isle,
And trees uncut fall for his fun'ral pile ;
About his palace their broad roots are tost
Into the air.- So Romulus was lost !
New Rome in such a tempest miss'd her king,
And from obeying fell to worshipping.
On Oeta's top thus Hercules lay dead,
With ruin'd oaks and pines about him spread.
The poplar, too, whose bough he wont to wear
On his victorious head, lay prostrate there.
Those his last fury from the mountain rent:
Our dying hero from the continent
Ravish'd whole towns, and forts from Spaniards reft,
As his last legacy to Britain left.
The ocean, which so long our hopes confin'd,
Could give no limits to his vaster mind;
Our bounds' enlargement was his latest toil,
Nor hath he left us pris'ners to our isle:
Under the tropic is our language spoke,
And part of Flanders hath receiv'd our yoke.
From civil broils he did us disengage,
Found nobler objects for our martial rage;
And, with wise conduct, to his country show'd
The ancient way of conquering abroad.

Ungrateful then! if we no tears allow
To him that gave us peace and empire too.
Princes that fear'd him grieve, concern'd to see
No pitch of glory from the grave is free.
Nature herself took notice of his death,
And, sighing, swell’d the sea with such a breath,
That to remotest shores her billows rollid,
Th' approaching fate of their great ruler told.

DESIGN or Chance makes others wive,
But Nature did this match contrive:
Eve might as well have Adam fled,
As she deny'd her little bed
To him, for whom Heav'n seem'd to frame
And measure out this only dame.

Thrice happy is that humble pair,
Beneath the level of all care !
Over whose heads those arrows fly
Of sad distrust and jealousy;
Secured in as high extreme
As if the world held none but them.

To him the fairest nymphs do shew
Like moving mountains topp'd with snow;
And ev'ry man a Polypheme
Does to his Galatea seem :
None may presume her faith to prove;
He proffers death that proffers love.

Ah Chloris ! that kind Nature thus
From all the world had sever'd us;
Creating for ourselves us two,
As Love has me for only you !

ON A BREDE OF DIVERS COLOURS. TWICE twenty slender virgin-fingers twine This curious web, where all their fancies shine. As nature them, so they this shade have wrought, Soft as their hands, and various as their thought. Not Juno's bird, when his fair train dispread, He wooes the female to his painted bed: No, not the bow, which so adorns the skies, So glorious is, or boasts so many dyes.

Fair! that you may truly know
What you unto Thyrsis owe,
I will tell you how I do
Sacharissa love and you.

Joy salutes me when I set
My blest eyes on Amoret;
But with wonder I am strook,
While I on the other look.

If sweet Amoret complains,
I have sense of all her pains ;
But for Sacharissa I
Do not only grieve, but die.

All that of myself is mine,
Lovely Amoret! is thine ;
Sacharissa's captive fain
Would untie his iron chain,
And those scorching beams to shun,
To thy gentle shadow run.

If the soul had free election
To dispose of her affection,
I would not thus long have borne
Haughty Sacharissa's scorn :
But 'tis sure some pow'r above,
Which controls our wills in love !

If not love, a strong desire
To create and spread that fire
In my breast, solicits me,
Beauteous Amoret! for thec.

"Tis amazement more than love Which her radiant eyes do move :


DEATH OF THE LORD PROTECTOR. We must resign! Heav'n his great soul does claim In storms, as loud as his immortal fame :

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