To a Gentlewoman, objecting to him his grey hairs. Am I despis'd because you say, And I dare swear that I am grey ? Where such a rare carnation grew ; Ah! then too late, close in your chamber keeping, It will be told That you are old By those true tears you're weeping. The mad Maid's Song. GOOD-morrow to the day so fair! Good-morning, sir, to you! Good-morrow to mine own torn hair, Bedabbled with the dew! Good-morning to this primrose too! That will with flowers the tomb bestrew I'll seek him there! I know, ere this, The cold, cold earth doth shake him ; But I will go, or send a kiss By you, sir, to awake him. Pray, hurt him not! though he be dead He's soft and tender-pray, take heed !— THOMAS STANLEY, The very learned editor of Æschylus, and author of "The "History of Philosophy," was the only son of Sir Thomas Stanley, knt. of Cumberlow-green in Hertfordshire, and nephew to Sandys the traveller and poet. He pursued his studies, first at home, and afterwards in Pembroke-hall, Cambridge, under the direction of Mr. Wm. Fairfax, son to the celebrated translator of Tasso. Having continued at the University till he had taken the degree of A. M. and been admitted to the same at Oxford, 1640, he then travelled in foreign countries: and on his return lived, during part of the civil wars, in the Middle Temple. He was the friend of Shirley, Sherburne, Hall, and Suckling. His poems, printed in 1651, 12mo. consist principally of translations, with a few original compositions, from which the following specimens are borrowed. He married when young, and died in 1678. Phillips, after commending his other works, adds, that Stanley was "particularly honoured for his smooth air and gentile "spirit in poetry; which appears not only in his own "genuine poems, but also from what he hath so well "translated out of ancient Greek, and modern Italian, "Spanish, and French poets, as to make his own.” See Langbaine, Wood's Fasti, I. 284, and the Biographia Britannica. The Deposition. THOUGH, when I lov'd thee, thou were fair, Thou art no longer so: Those glories all the pride they wear Unto opinion owe. Beauties, like stars, in borrow'd lustre shine, And 'twas my love that gave thee thine. The flames that dwelt within thine eye At once with my desire. Love's fires thus mutual influence return; Then, proud Celinda, hope no more And thy despis'd disdain too late shall find Love's Heretic. HE whose active thoughts disdain Or else more would undergo; Let him learn the art of me What tyrannic mistress dare To one beauty love confine? All may court, but none decline. Wheresoe'er I turn or move A new passion doth detain me; Those kind beauties that do love, Or those proud ones that disdain me. This frown melts, and that smile burns me; This to tears, that ashes turns me. Soft fresh virgins, not full-blown, With their youthful sweetness take me; Sober matrons, that have known Long since what these prove, awake me; |