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That will with flowers the tomb bestrew
Wherein my love is laid !
I'll seek him there! I know, ere this,
The cold, cold earth doth shake him ; But I will go, or send a kiss
By you, sir, to awake him.
Pray, hurt him not ! though he be dead
He knows well who do love him ; And who with green-turfs rear his head,
And who do rudely move him.
He's soft and tender-pray, take heed !
With bands of cowslips bind him; And bring him home—but 'tis decreed
That I shall never find him.
The very learned editor of Æschylus, and author of “The History of Philosophy,” was the only son of Sir Thomas Stanley, knt., of Cumberlow-green in Hertfordshire, and nephew to Sandys, the traveller and poet. He pursued his studies, first at home, and afterwards in Pembroke-hall, Cambridge, under the direction of Mr. Wm. Fairfax, son to the celebrated translator of Tasso. Having continued at the University till he had taken the degree of A.M., and been admitted to the same at Oxford, 1640, he then travelled in foreign countries : and on his return lived, during part of the civil wars, in the Middle Temple. He was the friend of Shirley, Sherburne, Hall, and Suckling. His poems, printed in 1651, 12mo, consist principally of translations, with a few original compositions, from which the following specimens are borrowed. He married when young, and died in 1678.
Phillips, after commending his other works, adds, that Stanley was “particularly honoured for his smooth air and gentile spirit in poetry; which appears not only in his own genuine poems, but also from what he hath so well translated out of ancient Greek, and modern Italian, Spanish, and French poets, as to make his own.”
See Langbaine, Wood's Fasti, i. 284, and the Biographia Britannica.
Thou art no longer so :
Unto opinion owe.
The flames that dwelt within thine eye
Do now with mine expire;
At once with my desire.
Then, proud Celinda, hope no more
To be implor’d or woo'd;
The wealth my love bestow'd:
To be captive to one foe,
Or else more would undergo;
Let him learn the art of me
What tyrannic mistress dare
To one beauty love confine ?
All may court, but none decline.
Wheresoe'er I turn or move
A new passion doth detain me; Those kind beauties that do love,
Or those proud ones that disdain me. This frown melts, and that smile burns me; This to tears, that ashes turns me.
Soft fresh virgins, not full-blown,
With their youthful sweetness take me ; Sober matrons, that have known
Long since what these prove, awake me; Here, staid coldness I admire, There, the lively active fire.
She that doth by skill dispense
Every favour she bestows,
Both alike my soul inflame,
She that wisely can adorn
Nature with the wealth of art, Or whose rural sweets do scorn
Borrow'd helps to take a heart; The vain care of that's my pleasure, Poverty of this my treasure.
Both the wanton and the coy
Me with equal pleasures move; She whom I by force enjoy,
Or who forceth me to love: This, because she'll not confess, That, not hide her happiness.
She whose loosely flowing hair,
Scatter'd like the beams o' th’ morn, Playing with the sportive air
Hides the sweets it doth adorn,
Nor doth she with power less bright
My divided heart invade, Whose soft tresses spread, like night,
O'er her shoulders a black shade;