If't hap the lady pleasant seem,
It is for others love they deem:
If void the feem of joy,
Difdain doth make her coy.

Such is the peace that lovers find,
Such is the life they lead;
Blown here and there with every wind,

Like flowers in the mead.

Now war, now peace, now war again;
Defire, defpair, delight, difdain:
Though dead, in midst of life;
In peace, and yet at ftrife.

* A voluminous writer in the earlier part of the last century. From his long, dull, puritanical rhimes, he has acquired the name and character of the English Bavius. His more juvenile pieces, however, of which the above is a fpecimen, would not difcredit the beft writer of that age.

Should'

Should my heart be griev'd or pin'd,
Caufe I fee a woman kind?
Or a well difpofed nature,
Joined with a lovely feature?
Be fhe meeker, kinder, than
Turtle-dove or pelican;

If fhe be not so to me,
What care I how kind fhe be.

Shall a womans virtues move
Me to perifh for her love?
Or, her well-defervings known,
Make me quite forget mine own?
Be fhe with that goodness bleft,
Which may gain her, name of Beft;
If the be not fuch to me,

What care I how good the be.

Caufe her fortune feems too high,
Shall I play the fool, and die?
Thofe that bear a noble mind,
Where they want of riches find,
Think what with them, they would do,
That without them dare to woo:

And, unless that mind I fee,

What care I though great she be.

Great, or good, or kind, or fair,
I will ne'er the more despair:

If the love me, this believe,
I will die, ere fhe fhall grieve.

if she flight me when I woo;
I can fcorn and let her go:
For, if she be not for me,
What care I for whom the be.

SONG XXIV.

BY SIR WALTER RALEIG H.

SH

HALL I, like an hermit, dwell
On a rock or in a cell,

Calling home the smallest part
That is miffing of my heart,

To bestow it, where I

Meet a rival every day?

may

If the undervalues me,
What care I how fair fhe be.

Were her treffes angel gold;
If a stranger may be bold,
Unrebuked, unafraid,

To convert them to a braid,
And, with little more ado,
Work them into bracelets too;
If the mine be grown so free,
What care I how rich it be.

Were her hands as rich a prize
As her hairs or precious eyes;
K

VOL. I.

If

If the lay them out to take
Kiffes for good-manners fake;
And let every lover fkip
From her hand unto her lip;
If the feem not chafte to me,
What care I how chafte fhe be.

No, she must be perfect fnow,
In effect as well as show,
Warming but as fnow-balls do,
Not like fire by burning too;
But when she by chance hath got
To her heart a fecond lot;

Then, if others share with me,
Farewell her, whate'er fhe be.

SONG XXV.

BY SIR JOHN SUCKLING.

WHY

HY fo pale and wan, fond lover?
Prithee why so pale

Will, when looking well can't move her,

Looking ill prevail ?

Prithee why fo pale ?

Why fo dull and mute, young finner ?

Prithee why so mute ?

Will, when speaking well can't win her,

Saying nothing do't?

Prithee why fo mute?

Quit, quit for fhame; this will not move,

This cannot take her;

If of herself she will not love,

Nothing can make her;

The devil take her.

Y

SONG XXVI.

E little Loves, that round her wait,
To bring me tidings of my fate;

As Celia on her pillow lies,

Ah! gently whisper, Strephon dies.

If this will not her pity move,
And the proud fair disdains to love;
Smile, and fay, 'tis all a lie,

And haughty Strephon fcorns to die.

SONG XXVII.

BY SIR JOHN SUCKLING

'T

IS now fince I fat down before

That foolish fort, a heart,

(Time ftrangely spent) a year, or more,

And still I did my part: