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'Tis true that I have nurs'd before

That hope, of which I now complain;
And, having little, sought no more,

Fearing to meet with your disdain.
The sparks of favour you did give,
I gently blew, to make them live;
And yet have gain’d, by all this care,
No rest in hope, nor in despair.

I see you wear that pitying smile

Which you have still vouchsaf’d my smart, Content thus cheaply to beguile

And entertain an harmless heart:
But I no longer can give way
To hope which doth so little pay;
And yet I dare no freedom owe,
Whilst you are kind, though but in show.

Then give me more, or give me less :

Do not disdain a mutual sense ;
Or your unpitying beauties dress

In their own free indifference!
But show not a severer eye,
Sooner to give me liberty ;
For I shall love the very scorn
Which, for my sake, you do put on.

WILLIAM CARTWRIGHT

Was born, according to Wood, in 1611; and in 1628 sent to

Christ Church, Oxford, where he died, soon after his nomination to the office of junior proctor, in 1643. His learning, his eloquence in the pulpit, and his poetical talents, are extolled by all his contemporaries; and his poems and plays were ushered into the world in 1651 with no less than fifty copies of commendatory verses. For this torrent of panegyric he was probably indebted to the sweetness of his manners, and his proficiency in academical learning, because his poetry, as Mr. Headley has justly observed, is not remarkable for “ elegance or even neatness of style," though certainly recommended by “good sense and soli. “ dity.” Many high testimonies to his character may be seen in the Biographia Dramatica.

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[In “ The Lady Errant.”]
To carve our loves in myrtle rinds,

And tell our secrets to the woods;
To send our sighs by faithful winds,
And trust our tears unto the floods ;

To call where no man hears,
And think that rocks have ears,

To walk and rest, to live and die,
And yet not know whence, how, or why;
To have our hopes with fears still check’d,
To credit doubts, and truth suspect;-

This, this is what we may
A lover's absence say.

1

Love but one.

See these two little brooks that slowly creep

In snaky windings through the plains !
I knew them once one river, swift and deep,
Blessing and blest by poets' strains :

* * * * *

But, since it broke itself, and double glides, · The naked banks no dress have worn; And yon dry barren mountain now derides

These valleys, which lost glories mourn.

O Chloris, think how this presents thy love !

Which when it ran but in one stream, We happy shepherds thence did thrive, and 'prove,

And thou wast mine and all men's theme.

But since 't hath been imparted to one more,

And in two streams doth weakly creep, Our common Msuse is thence grown low and poor,

And mine as lean as these my sheep.

But think withal what honour thou hast lost,

Which we did to thy full stream pay! Whilst now that swain that swears he loves thee most

Slakes but his thirst and goes away!

FALSEHOOD.

[An Extract.]

Still do the stars impart their light
To those that travel in the night:
Still time runs on, nor doth the hand
Or shadow on the dial stand :
The streams still glide and constant are :

Only thy mind
Untrue I find,
Which carelessly

Neglects to be
Like stream or shadow, hand or star.

Lesbia on her Sparrow.

*

See

betullus

Tell me not of joy! there's none,
Now my little sparrow's gone :

He, just as you,

Would sigh and woo,
He would chirp and flatter me;

He would hang the wing a while,

Till at length he saw me smile, Lord! how sullen he would be !

He would catch a crumb, and then
Sporting let it go again ;

He from my lip

Would moisture sip,
He would from my trencher feed ;

Then would hop, and then would run,

And cry Phillip when he'd done; Oh! whose heart can choose but bleed ?

Oh! how eager would he fight,
And ne'er hurt though he did bite,

No morn did pass,
But on my glass

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