Under whose shadows lions wild,

Soften'd by Love, grow tame and mild. Love no med'cine can appease;

He burns the fishes in the seas:

Not all the skill his wounds can stanch, Not all the sea his fire can quench. Love did make the bloody spear

Once a leavy coat to wear,

While in his leaves there shrouded lay Sweet birds, for love that sing and play;

And of all Love's joyful flame

I the bud and blossom am.

Only bend thy knee to me,

Thy wooing shall thy winning be!

See, see the flowers that below

Now as fresh as morning blow,

And of all the virgin rose,

That as bright Aurora shows,
How they all unleaved die

Losing their virginity :

Like unto a summer shade,

But now born and now they fade.

Every thing doth pass away;

There is danger in delay.

Come, come gather then the rose;

Gather it, or it you lose.

All the sand of Tagus' shore

All the valleys swimming corn
To my house is yearly borne:
Every grape of every vine

Is gladly bruis'd to make me wine;
While ten thousand kings, as proud
To carry up my train, have bow'd,
And a world of ladies send me
In my chambers to attend me :
All the stars in heaven that shine,
And ten thousand more, are mine.
Only bend thy knee to me,
Thy wooing shall thy winning be.

PART IV. ST. XLVIII.

BUT let the Kentish lad that lately taught
His oaten reed the trumpet's silver sound,
Young Thyrsilis, and for his music brought

The willing spheres from heaven to lead a round Of dancing nymphs, and herds that sung and crown'd

Eclecta's hymen with ten thousand flowers

Of choicest praise, and hung her heavenly bowers With saffron garlands, drest for nuptial paramours,

Let his shrill trumpet, with her silver blast,
Of fair Eclecta and her spousal bed

Be the sweet pipe, and smooth encomiast ;

VOL. III.

E

But my green Muse, hiding her younger head
Under old Chamus' flaggy banks, that spread
Their willow locks abroad, and all the day
With their own watery shadows wanton play,

Dares not those high amours and love-sick songs

assay.

SIR JOHN BEAUMONT,

DESCENDED of an ancient Leicestershire family, son of Francis Beaumont the judge, and brother of Francis Beaumont the poet, was author of "Bosworth Field," with a variety of other poems, printed in 1629, 12mo. According to Wood, he was entered a gentleman-commoner of Broadgate's Hall, Oxford, in 1596, at the age of fourteen, consequently born in 1582. Having remained here about three years, he retired to one of the inns of court, and afterwards to his native country, where he married, and was in 1626 made a baronet. "The former part of his life," says Wood, "he successfully employed in poetry, and the latter he as happily bestowed on more serious and beneficial studies." He died in 1628. Dr. Kippis commends the harmonious versification of Sir John Beaumont, and says it was much above the general cast of the age. See Biog. Brit. vol. ii. 88.

A Description of Love.

LOVE is a region full of fires,
And burning with extreme desires
An object seeks, of which possest,
The wheels are fix'd, the motions rest,
The flames in ashes lie opprest.

This meteor, striving high to rise,
(The fuel spent) falls down and dies.

Why then should lovers (most will say)
Expect so much th' enjoying day?

Love is like youth: he thirsts for age,
He scorns to be his mother's page:
But when proceeding times assuage
The former heat he will complain,
And wish those pleasant hours again.

We know that Hope and Love are twins ;
Hope gone, fruition now begins:
But what is this? unconstant, frail,
In nothing sure, but sure to fail,
Which, if we lose it, we bewail;
And when we have it, still we bear
The worst of passions, daily fear!

When Love thus in his centre ends,
Desire and Hope, his inward friends,
Are shaken off; while Doubt and Grief,

The weakest givers of relief,

Stand in his council as the chief.

And now he, to his period brought,

From Love becomes some other thought.