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Inspir'd my brain and blood;

And made me then converse with toys
Which are call'd Muses by the boys,
And dabble in their flood.

I was persuaded in those days
There was no crown like love and bays.

But now my youth and pride are gone,
And age and cares come creeping on,
And business checks my love,

What need I take a needless toil,
To spend my labour, time, and oil,

Since no design can move?

For, now the cause is ta'en away,
What reason is't th' effect should stay?

'Tis but a folly now for me

To spend my time and industry
About such useless wit;

For when I think I have done well,

I see men laugh; but cannot tell
Whe'r 't be at me, or it.

Great madness 'tis to be a drudge,

When those that cannot write dare judge.

Besides the danger that ensu'th

To him that speaks or writes the truth,

The premium is so small;

To be call'd poet, and wear bays,
And factor turn of songs and plays;
This is no wit at all!

Wit, only good to sport and sing,
's a needless and an endless thing.

Give me the wit that can't speak sense,
Nor read it, but in's own defence,

Ne'er learn'd, but of his grannam ;
He that can buy, and sell, and cheat,
May quickly make a shift to get

His thousand pound per annum,
And purchase, without much ado,
poems, and the poet too.

The

Upon his Mare, stolen by a Trooper, in 1644.

WHY let her go.—I'll vex myself no more,
Lest my heart break, as did my stable door.
'Twas but a mare; if she be gone, she's gone;
"Tis not a mare that I do stand upon.
Now, by this cross! I am so temperate grown,
I'll bridle nature, since my mare is gone.
I have a little learning—and less wit—
That wealth is sure: no thief can pilfer it.
Riches, they say, have wings: my mare had so ;
For though she'd legs, yet she could hardly go :

But thieves, and fate, have such a strong command
To make those go which have no feet to stand.
I'll mount on Pegasus; for he's so poor

From thief or true man one may ride secure.

I would not rack invention for a curse

To plague the thief, for fear I make him worse:
In charity I wish him no more pain,

But to restore me home my mare again.

And, 'cause I would not have good customs alter, I wish who has the mare may have the halter.

SIR ROBERT HOWARD,

A YOUNGER SON of Thomas earl of Berkshire, was probably born about 1622, and educated at Magdalen College, Oxford. Having shared in his father's sufferings, and distinguished himself by his loyalty and courage, he became, after the Restoration, a knight, a M.P., and a place-man, and died in 1698. For a list of his dramatic and other works, and farther particulars of his life, vide Wood's Ath. ii. 1018, and the Biographia Dramatica. His poems, consisting of songs and sonnets, panegyrics, translations, &c. were published, together with his first comedy," The Blind Lady," in 1660; but Sir Robert is principally known to posterity by his controversy with his brother-in-law Dryden.

SONG.

To the inconstant Cynthia.

IN thy fair breast, and once fair soul,
I thought my vows were writ alone :
But others' oaths so blurr'd the scroll,

That I no more could read my own.
And am I still oblig'd to pay,

When you had thrown the bond away?
Nor must we only part in joy;

Our tears as well must be unkind:

Weep you, that could such truth destroy,
And I, that could such falseness find!

Thus we must unconcern'd remain

In our divided joys and pain.

Yet we may love, but on this different score, You what I am, I what you were before.

The Resolution.

No, Cynthia; never think I can
Love a divided heart and mind:
Your sunshine love to every man
Appears alike as great as kind.

None but the duller Persians kneel,
And the bright god of beams implore;

Whilst others equal influence feel,
That never did the god adore.

Though I resolve to love no more,
Since I did once, I will advise :
The love of conquests now give o'er;
Disquiets wait on victories.

To

and name

your much injur'd peace
Love's farewell as a tribute pay ;

Grow now reserv'd, and raise your fame
By your own choice, not your decay.

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