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If with a frown
I am cast down,
Phillis smiling,

And beguiling,
Makes me happier than before.

Though, alas ! too late I find

Nothing can her fancy fix;
Yet the moment she is kind,
I forgive her all her tricks.

Which though I see,
I can't get free;
She deceiving

I believing;
What need lovers wish for more ?

Out of Lycophron.

What shall become of man so wise

When he dies ?

None can tell
Whether he goes to heaven or hell,

Or, after a few moments dear,

He disappear ;

And at last
Perish entirely like a beast ?

But women, wine, and mirth, we know,
Are all the joys he has below:
Let us then ply those joys we have;
'Tis vain to think beyond the grave.
Out of our reach the gods have laid

Of time to come th’ event,
And laugh to see the fools afraid

Of what the knaves invent.

vol. III.

Bb

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.

SONG.

SEE, O see !
How every tree,
Every bower,

Every flower,
A new life gives to others' joys,

Whilst that I
Grief-stricken lie,

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!
How sweet and clear
The nightingale

And waters’-fall
In concert join for others' ears.

Whilst to me,
For harmony,
Every air

Echoes despair,
And every drop provokes a tear.
What are all the senses' pleasures,
When the mind has lost all measures !

ROBERT VEEL

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 !
And yet, how empty are the fruits !

How full of trouble, grief, and noise !
We to our ancestors new follies add,
Proving ourselves less happy, and more mad.

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 !

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