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If with a frown
Though, alas ! too late I find
Nothing can her fancy fix;
Which though I see,
Out of Lycophron.
What shall become of man so wise
When he dies ?
None can tell
Or, after a few moments dear,
He disappear ;
And at last
But women, wine, and mirth, we know,
Of time to come th’ event,
Of what the knaves invent.
GEORGE DIGBY, EARL OF BRISTOL,
Was born in Madrid, 1612 : died 1676. “A singular person,” says Lord Orford, “ whose life was one contradiction. He wrote against popery, and embraced it; he was a zealous opposer of the court, and a sacrifice for it ; was conscientiously converted in the midst of his prosecution of Lord Strafford, and was most unconscientiously a prosecutor of Lord Clarendon. With great parts, he always hurt himself and his friends ; with romantic bravery, he was always an unsuccessful commander. He spoke for the test act though a Roman Catholic ; and addicted himself to astrology on the birth-day of true philosophy.” For particulars of his life, and a catalogue of his writings, vide Wood, Ath. ii. 579.
This eccentric man composed a comedy called “Elvira," from whence the following song is extracted. It was printed in 1667, and obtained his lordship a place in Suckling's Session of the Poets.
SEE, O see !
Whilst that I
Nor can meet
With any sweet But what faster mine destroys. What are all the senses' pleasures, When the mind has lost all measures ?
Hear, O hear!
Whilst to me,
Was born at Alveston, in Gloucestershire ; entered of Edmund Hall, Oxford, in 1663, aged fifteen ; "continued there,” says Wood, “ about ten terms ; went to the great city, lived after the manner of poets, in a debauched way, and wrote partly for the use of his idle and vain companions, but more to gain money to carry on the trade of folly." Among other things he was the author of “ New Court-Songs and Poems,” 8vo. 1672. He seems to have been an easy versifier, though without much originality,
Vanity of Worldly Happiness.
How eager are our vain pursuits
Of pleasure, and of worldly joys !
How full of trouble, grief, and noise !
What, but a tempest, is the world,
Whereon this bark of ours is tost? Which, by ambition wildly hurl’d,
Is split against a rock, and lost !