16

MATTHEW STEVENSON,

AUTHOR of "Poems of a miscellany of Sonnets, Satyrs, Drollery, Panegyricks, Elegies, &c." London, 1673, 12mo, a book which sometimes occurs with the title of " Norfolk Drollery ;" and in 1685 was called "The Wits, or Poems and Songs on various Occasions." A different volume of Poems by Matthew Stevenson," appeared in 1665, and "Bellum Presbyteriale," an heroic poem, in 1661. In 1654, he printed a 12mo miscellany, styled "Occasion's Offspring." Stevenson seems to have resembled Fleckno as a poet and publisher. The following song from the first-mentioned miscellany is tolerable.

SONG.

Carolina.

SHOULD I sigh out my days in grief,
And, as my beads, count miseries,
My wound would meet with no relief
For all the balsam of mine eyes:
I'll therefore set my heart at rest,
And of bad market make the best.

Some set their hearts on winged wealth,
Others to honour's towers aspire ;

But give me freedom and my health,
And there's the sum of my desire:
If all the world should pay me rent,
It could not add to my content.

There is no fence against our fate,

Eve's daughters all are born to sorrow; Vicissitudes upon us wait

That laugh to-day, and lower to-morrow. Why should we then, with wrinkled care, Deface what nature made so fair?

UNCERTAIN AUTHORS.

To his Mistress.

[From "Wit restored," a poetical miscellany, 1658, 12mo.]

I'LL tell you whence the rose did first grow red,
And whence the lily whiteness borrowed.

You blush'd; and then the rose with red was dight:
The lily kist your hands; and so came white:
Before that time the rose was but a stain,

The lily nought but paleness did contain.
You have the native colour! these they die;
And only flourish in your livery!

Phillada flouts me.

[From the same Collection.]

OH! what a pain is love :

How shall I bear it?
She will unconstant prove,
I greatly fear it.

She so torments my mind,

That my strength faileth,

And wavers with the wind,
As a ship that saileth;
Please her the best I may,
She looks another way;

Alack and well-a-day!

Phillada flouts me!

All the fair yesterday
She did pass by me;
She look'd another way,
And would not spy me.
I woo'd her for to dine,
But could not get her.
Will had her to the wine;
He might entreat her.
With Daniel she did dance,
On me she look'd askance,

Oh, thrice unhappy chance!
Phillada flouts me!

Fair maid, be not so coy,

Do not disdain me!

I am my mother's joy,

Sweet, entertain me!

She'll give me, when she dies,

All that is fitting;

Her poultry, and her bees,

And her geese sitting;

A pair of mattress beds,
And a bag full of shreds;

And yet for all this goods

Phillada flouts me!

She hath a clout of mine,

Wrought with good Coventry,

Which she keeps for a sign

Of my fidelity.

But i' faith, if she flinch,
She shall not wear it;

To Tibb, my t'other wench,
I mean to bear it.

And yet it grieves my heart

So soon from her to part!

Death strikes me with his dart!

Phillada flouts me!

Thou shalt eat curds and cream

All the year lasting;

And drink the crystal stream,

Pleasant in tasting:

Whig and whey, whilst thou burst,

And ramble-berry,

Pye-lid and pastry-crust,

Pears, plumbs, and cherry;

Thy raiment shall be thin,
Made of a weaver's skin.-

Yet, all's not worth a pin!
Phillada flouts me!