Our kitchen boy hath broke his box, Our honest neighbours come by flocks, Some youths will now a mumming go, Some others play at Roland-bo, And twenty other game boys mo, Then, wherefore, in these merry days, Bear witness we are merry. THE SHEPHERD'S RESOLUTION. GEORGE WITHER. SHALL I, wasting in despaire, Dye, because a woman's faire ? Or make pale my cheeks with care 'Cause another's rosie are? Be she fairer than the day, Or the flow'ry meads in May; Shall my foolish heart be pined If she be not so to me, What care I how kinde she be? Shall a woman's virtue move Me to perish for her love? Or her well-deservings knowne, Make me quite forget mine owne? Be she with that goodnesse blest, If she be not such to me, What care I how good she be? 'Cause her fortune seems too high, Shall I play the foole and dye? Those that beare a noble minde, Where they want of riches finde, Thinke what with them they would doe, That without them dare to wooe; And unlesse that minde I see, What care I how great she be? Great, or good, or kinde, or faire, THE CHRONICLE. BY ABRAHAM COWLEY. [ABRAHAM COWLEY was born in London, in 1618, after his father's death. He was educated first at Cambridge, and afterwards, when he was ejected from that University on account of his loyalty, at Oxford. He showed great zeal in the royal cause, forwarded it by every means in his power, and was an exile for twelve years. When he returned to his native country, he was thrown into prison, but soon afterwards recovered his liberty. After Cromwell's death he again retired to France, until the Restoration. Neglected by the Court, on account of some of his poems, he went to reside at a farm which had been obtained for him from the Queen, by the Duke of Buckingham, and finally settled at Chertsey, on the banks of the Thames. There he devoted himself to a rural life, hoping for happiness but finding it not; the place was unwholesome, and his neighbours plundered him. He died in 1667, of a cold caught in his meadows, and was interred in Westminster Abbey. Cowley was a poet from his earliest years, and published a volume at thirteen. He had wit, but it was spoiled by pedantry; he was gallant, but felt no permanent passion. His anacreontic pieces are the best which he wrote. Charles II. made a late and poor reparation for the neglect with which he had been treated, by declaring that "he left not a better man behind him in England;" but he was one of those few fortunate poets who attained to independence, and, in their lifetime, acquired honour and fame.] MARGARITA first possest, If I remember well, my breast. Margarita first of all; But when a while the wanton maid With my restless heart had play'd, Martha took the flying ball, |