The safer vulgar this with wonder see,
And from our ruin learn humility.

With costly silks we do adorn

These stalking pageants, made of clay,
Whose very flowers, while they are worn,
But emblems are of our decay :

Batter'd by sickness, or inflam'd by lust,
Or undermin'd by time, we fall to dust.

SONG.

Frailty of Beauty.

As poor Aurelia sat alone,

Hard by a river's flowery side, Envious at Nature's new-born pride, Her slighted self thus she reflected on.

Alas! that Nature should revive

These flowers, which after winter's snow Spring fresh again, and brisker show; And for our brighter sex so ill contrive!

Beauty, like them, a short-liv'd thing,
On us in vain she did bestow ;

Beauty, that only once can grow,

An autumn has, but knows no second spring.

SNOW.

SEE how the feather'd blossoms through the air
Traverse a thousand various paths, to find
On the impurer earth a place that's fair,
Courting the conduct of each faithless wind!

See how they seem to hover near their end,
Nicely supported on their doubtful wings,
Yet all by an impulse of fate descend,

On dunghills some, some on the courts of kings.

Of warmest vapours, which the sun exhales,
All are compos'd; and in a short liv'd hour
Their dazzling pride and coyest beauty falls,
Dissolv'd by Phoebus, or a weeping shower.

All of one matter form'd, to one return :

Their fall is greatest who are plac'd most high : Let not the proud presume, or poorest mourn: Their fate's decreed, and every one must die.

Boast not of endless wealth, or noble birth ;
From earth all come, all must return to earth.

JOHN WILMOT, EARL OF ROCHESTER,

WAS born in 1648, and died in 1680. The anecdotes of his life are too numerous for abridgment, and too well known to require insertion in this place.

SONG.

INSULTING beauty, you mis-spend
Those frowns upon your slave;
Your scorn against such rebels bend,
Who dare with confidence pretend
That other eyes their hearts defend
From all the charms you have.

Your conquering eyes so partial are,
Or mankind is so dull,

That, while I languish in despair,

Many proud senseless hearts declare,

They find you not so killing fair,
To wish you merciful.

They an inglorious freedom boast;

I triumph in my chain;

Nor am I unreveng'd, though lost, Nor you unpunish'd though unjust, When I alone, who love you most,

Am kill'd with your disdain.

SIR FRANCIS FANE.

THIS author, who was grandson to the Earl of Westmoreland, and Knight of the Bath, is very highly commended by Langbaine. Besides a few poems printed in Tate's Miscellanies, he published two plays, viz. "Love in the Dark," a comedy, 1675, and "The Sacrifice," a tragedy, 1686; and a masque. The following is extracted from his comedy.

SONG.

CUPID, I Scorn to beg the art
From thy imaginary throne,

To learn to wound another's heart,
Or how to heal my own.

If she be coy, my airy mind

Brooks not a siege; if she be kind,
She proves my scorn that was my wonder;
For, towns that yield I hate to plunder.

Love is a game; hearts are the prize;
Pride keeps the stakes! Art throws the dice:

When either's won

The game is done.

Love is a coward, hunts the flying prey,

But when it once stands still, Love runs away.