Inspir'd my brain and blood; And made me then converse with toys I was persuaded in those days But now my youth and pride are gone, What need I take a needless toil, Since no design can move? For, now the cause is ta'en away, 'Tis but a folly now for me To spend my time and industry For when I think I have done well, I see men laugh; but cannot tell 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, Wit, only good to sport and sing, Give me the wit that can't speak sense, Ne'er learn'd, but of his grannam ; His thousand pound per annum, The Upon his Mare, stolen by a Trooper, in 1644. WHY let her go.—I'll vex myself no more, But thieves, and fate, have such a strong command 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: 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, That I no more could read my own. When you had thrown the bond away? Our tears as well must be unkind: Weep you, that could such truth destroy, 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 None but the duller Persians kneel, Whilst others equal influence feel, Though I resolve to love no more, To and name your much injur'd peace Grow now reserv'd, and raise your fame |