A sure and sad prognostic 'tis of some
Impending judgment on a realm or state.

Ere God on Sodom stretch'd his flaming hand, He had a care to send just Lot away;

So mostly still, when he will scourge a land, Whom he best loves, he puts out of the way.

Early set forth to your eternal race:

Th' ascent is steep and craggy, you must climb. God, at all times, has promis'd sinners grace

If they repent; but he ne'er promis'd time.

Cheat not yourselves as most; who then prepare

For death, when life is almost turn'd to fume: One thief was sav'd that no man might despair; And but one thief, that no man might presume.

Wealth, honour, friends, wife, children, kindred, all We so much doat on, and wherein we trust, Are withering gourds; blossoms that fade and fall; Landscapes in water; and deeds drawn in dust.

How many has the morn beheld to rise

In their youth's prime, as glorious as the sun,

Who, like a flower cropt, have had their eyes Clos'd up by death before the day was done!

Poison, a knife, a pistol, thousands more
Sad instruments, set periods to our fates.
Nature lets in to life but at one door;

But, to go forth, death opens many gates.

RICHARD LOVELACE,

Eldest son of Sir Wm. Lovelace of Woolwich, in Kent, knt. was born in 1618, educated at the Charter-house, and Glocester-hall, Oxford, where he entered as a gentlemancommoner when 16 years of age; and while the king and queen were in the University, at the request of a great lady made to the chancellor, was created A.M. though then but of two years standing. Wood says of him, that he was "accounted the most amiable and beautiful person that eye 66 ever beheld: a person also of innate modesty, virtue, and "courtly deportment," and that he was " much admired "and adored by the female sex." He died in extreme want at a mean lodging near Shoe-lane, in 1658, after having frequently risked his life, and consumed his whole patrimony in useless efforts to serve his sovereign. He wrote two plays, never printed, called "the Scholar," and "the Soldier," and a volume of poems, 1649, called "Lucasta," in honour of Lucy Sacheverel, a lady of great beauty and fortune, whom he usually styled Lux Casta, and who, supposing him dead of his wounds received at Dunkirk, where he commanded a regiment, married another.

After his death his "Posthume Poems" were published, in

the year 1659, by his brother, Dudley Posthumus-Lovelace.

[Abridged from 4 stanzas.]

WHY should you swear I am forsworn,

Since thine I vow'd to be?

Lady, it is already morn;

And 'twas last night I swore to thee
That fond impossibility.

Have I not lov'd thee much, and long;
A tedious twelve-hour's space?

I must all other beauties wrong,
And rob thee of a new embrace,
Could I still doat upon thy face.

SONG..

To Amarantha, that she would dishevel her hair.

[Abridged from 7 stanzas.]

AMARANTHA, sweet and fair,

Ah! braid no more that shining hair!

As my curious hand or eye,

Hovering round thee, let it fly.

Let it fly as unconfin'd

As its calm ravisher the wind;
Who hath left his darling th' east
To wanton o'er that spicy nest.

Every tress must be confest
But neatly tangled at the best;

Like a clew of golden thread,
Most excellently ravelled.

Do not then wind up

that light

In ribbons, and o'ercloud in night,

Like the sun in 's early ray,

But shake your head and scatter day!

SONG.

To Lucasta. Going to the wars.

TELL me not, sweet, I am unkind,
That from the nunnery

Of thy chaste breast and quiet mind
To war and arms I fly.