Don't be proud 'cause we adore you, We do't only for our pleasure; And those parts in which you giory We by fancy weigh and measure. When for deities you go,

For angels or for queens, pray know 'Tis our fancy makes you so.

Don't suppose your majesty

By tyranny's best signified, And your angelic natures be

Distinguish'd only by your pride. Tyrants make subjects rebels grow, And pride makes angels devils below, And your pride may make you so.

Palinode.

No more, no more of this! I vow "Tis time to leave this fooling now,

Which few but fools call wit:

There was a time when I begun,
And now 'tis time I should have done,
And meddle no more with it.
He physic's use doth quite mistake
That physic takes for physic's sake.

My heat of youth, and love, and pride,
Did swell me with their strong spring-tide,
Inspir'd my brain and blood;

And made me then converse with toys
Which are call'd Muses by the boys,
And dabble in their flood.

I was persuaded in those days
There was no crown like love and bays.

But now my youth and pride are gone,
And age and cares come creeping on,
And business checks my love,
What need I take a needless toil,
To spend my labour, time, and oil,
Since no design can move?

For, now the cause is ta'en away,
What reason is't th' effect should stay?

"Tis but a folly now for me

To spend my time and industry
About such useless wit;

For when I think I have done well,
I see men laugh; but cannot tell
Whe'r't be at me, or it.

Great madness 'tis to be a drudge,

When those that cannot write dare judge.

Besides the danger that ensu❜th

To him that speaks or writes the truth,
The premium is so small;

To be call'd poet, and wear bays,

And factor turn of songs and plays;
This is no wit at all!

Wit, only good to sport and sing,
's a needless and an endless thing.

Give me the wit that can't speak sense,
Nor read it, but in's own defence,

Ne'er learn'd, but of his grannam;
He that can buy, and sell, and cheat,
May quickly make a shift to get

His thousand pound per annum, And purchase, without much ado, The poems, and the poet too.

Upon his Mare, stolen by a Trooper, in 1644.

WHY let her go.-I'll vex myself no more, Lest my heart break, as did my stable door. 'Twas but a mare; if she be

gone, she's

"Tis not a mare that I do stand

upon.

gone;

Now, by this cross! I am so temperate grown,
I'll bridle nature, since my maré is gone.

I have a little learning—and less wit-
That wealth is sure: no thief can pilfer it.
Riches, they say, have wings: my mare had so;
For though she'd legs, yet she could hardly go:
But thieves, and fate, have such a strong command
To make those go which have no feet to stand.
I'll mount on Pegasus; for he's so poor
From thief or true man one may ride secure.
I would not rack invention for a curse

To plague the thief, for fear I make him worse:
In charity I wish him no more pain,

But to restore me home my mare again.

And, 'cause I would not have good customs alter, I wish who has the mare may have the halter.

SIR ROBERT HOWARD,

A younger son of Thomas earl of Berkshire, was probably born about 1622, and educated at Magdalen College, Oxford. Having shared in his father's sufferings, and distinguished himself by his loyalty and courage, he became, after the Restoration, a knight, a M.P. and a place-man, and died in 1698. For a list of his dramatic and other works, and farther particulars of his life, vide Wood's Ath. II. 1018. and the Biographia Dramatica. His poems, consisting of songs and sonnets, panegyrics, translations, &c. were published, together with his first comedy, "The Blind Lady," in 1660: but Sir Robert is principally known to posterity by his controversy with his brother-in-law Dryden.

SONG.

To the inconstant Cynthia.

IN thy fair breast, and once fair soul,
I thought my vows were writ alone :
But others' oaths so blurr'd the scroll,

That I no more could read my own.
And am I still oblig'd to pay,

When you had thrown the bond away?