Our kitchen boy hath broke his box,
And to the dealing of the ox,

Our honest neighbours come by flocks,
And here they will be merry.

Some youths will now a mumming go,

Some others play at Roland-bo,

And twenty other game boys mo,
Because they will be merry.

Then, wherefore, in these merry days,
Should we, I pray, be duller?
No, let us sing some roundelays,
To make our mirth the fuller:
And while we thus inspired sing,
Let all the streets with echoes ring;
Woods and hills, and everything,

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;
If she be not so to me,
What care I how faire she be?

Shall my foolish heart be pined
'Cause I see a woman kind?
Or a well-disposed nature
Joined with a lovely feature?
Be she meeker, kinder, than
The turtle-dove or pelican:

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,
Which may merit name of best;

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,
I will ne'er the more despaire;
If she love me, this beleeve;
I will dye ere she shall grieve,
If she slight me when I wooe,
I can scorn and let her goe:
If she be not fit for me,
What care I for whom she be?

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,