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That will with flowers the tomb bestrew

Wherein my love is laid !

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 knows well who do love him ; And who with green-turfs rear his head,

And who do rudely move him.

He's soft and tender-pray, take heed !

With bands of cowslips bind him; And bring him home—but 'tis decreed

That I shall never find him.


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 wert 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

Do now with mine expire;
Thy brightest graces fade and die

At once with my desire.
Love's fires thus mutual influence return;
Thine cease to shine when mine to burn.

Then, proud Celinda, hope no more

To be implor’d or woo'd;
Since by thy scorn thou dost restore

The wealth my love bestow'd:
And thy despis’d disdain too late shall find
That none are fair but who are kind !

Love's Heretic.
He whose active thoughts disdain

To be captive to one foe,
And would break his single chain,

Or else more would undergo;

Let him learn the art of me
By new bondage to be free.

What tyrannic mistress dare

To one beauty love confine ?
Who, unbounded as the air,

All may court, but none decline.
Why should we the heart deny
As many objects as the eye.

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; Here, staid coldness I admire, There, the lively active fire.

She that doth by skill dispense

Every favour she bestows,
Or the harmless innocence
Which nor court nor city knows,

Both alike my soul inflame,
That wild beauty, and this tame.

She that wisely can adorn

Nature with the wealth of art, Or whose rural sweets do scorn

Borrow'd helps to take a heart; The vain care of that's my pleasure, Poverty of this my treasure.

Both the wanton and the coy

Me with equal pleasures move; She whom I by force enjoy,

Or who forceth me to love: This, because she'll not confess, That, not hide her happiness.

She whose loosely flowing hair,

Scatter'd like the beams o' th’ morn, Playing with the sportive air

Hides the sweets it doth adorn,
Captive in the net restrains me,
In those golden fetters chains me.

Nor doth she with power less bright

My divided heart invade, Whose soft tresses spread, like night,

O'er her shoulders a black shade;

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