A new life gives to others' joys,
Whilst that I

Grief-stricken lie,

Nor can meet

With any sweet

But what faster mine destroys.

What are all the senses' pleasures,

When the mind has lost all measures?

Hear, O hear!

How sweet and clear

The nightingale

And waters fall

In concert join for others' ears,

Whilst to me,

For harmony,
Every air

Echoes despair,

And every drop provokes a tear.
What are all the senses' pleasures,

When the mind has lost all measures?

ROBERT VEEL

Was born at Alveston, in Gloucestershire; entered of Edm. Hall, Oxford, in 1663, aged 15; "continued there," says Wood, "about 10 terms;-went to the great city, lived after "the manner of poets, in a debauched way, and wrote "partly for the use of his idle and vain companions, but "more to gain money to carry on the trade of folly." Among other things he was author of "New Court-Songs "and Poems," 8vo. 1672. He seems to have been an easy versifier, though without much originality.

Vanity of worldly Happiness.

How eager are our vain pursuits
Of pleasure, and of worldly joys!
And yet, how empty are the fruits!

How full of trouble, grief, and noise!
We to our ancestors new follies add,
Proving ourselves less happy, and more mad.

What, but a tempest, is the world,

Whereon this bark of ours is tost?

Which, by ambition wildly hurl'd,
Is split against a rock, and lost!
D d

VOL. III.

The safer vulgar this with wonder see,
And from our ruin learn humility.

With costly silks we do adorn

These stalking pageants, made of clay, Whose very flowers, while they are worn, But emblems are of our decay: Batter'd by sickness, or inflam'd by lust, Or undermin'd by time, we fall to dust.

SONG.

Frailty of beauty.

As poor Aurelia sat alone,

Hard by a river's flowery side, Envious at Nature's new-born pride, Her slighted self thus she reflected on.

Alas! that Nature should revive

These flowers, which after winter's snow Spring fresh again and brisker show; And for our brighter sex so ill contrive!

Beauty, like them, a short-liv'd thing,
On us in vain she did bestow;

Beauty, that only once can grow,

An autumn has, but knows no second spring.

SNOW.

SEE how the feather'd blossoms through the air Traverse a thousand various paths, to find On the impurer earth a place that's fair, Courting the conduct of each faithless wind!

See how they seem to hover near their end,
Nicely supported on their doubtful wings,
Yet all by an impulse of fate descend,

On dunghills some, some on the courts of king.

Of warmest vapours, which the sun exhales,
All are compos'd; and in a short-liv'd hour
Their dazzling pride and coyest beauty falls,
Dissolv'd by Phoebus, or a weeping shower.

All, of one matter form'd, to one return:

Their fall is greatest who are plac'd most high: Let not the proud presume, or poorest mourn: Their fate's decreed, and every one must die.

Boast not of endless wealth, or noble birth;
From earth all come, all must return to earth.

JOHN WILMOT, EARL OF ROCHESTER,

Was born in 1648, and died in 1680. The anecdotes of his life are too numerous for abridgment, and too well known to require insertion in this place.

SONG.

INSULTING beauty, you mis-spend
Those frowns upon your slave;
Your scorn against such rebels bend,
Who dare with confidence pretend
That other eyes their hearts defend
From all the charms you have.

Your conquering eyes so partial are,
Or mankind is so dull,

That, while I languish in despair,
Many proud senseless hearts declare,

They find you not so killing fair,

To wish you merciful.