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SIR RICHARD FANSHAW.

The following extract is taken from his poems, published with the Tranflation of Il Pastor fido, 1676.—The four first lines are part of another Sonnet.

THOU

HOU blushing rofe, within whofe virgin leaves The wanton wind to fport himself prefumes, Whilft from their rifled wardrobe he receives

For his wings purple, for his breath perfumes. Blown in the morning, thou shalt fade ere noon; What boots a life which in fuch hafte forfakes thee? Thou 'rt wondrous frolic, being to die fo foon, And paffing proud a little colour makes thee.

If thee thy brittle beauty fo deceives,

Know then, the thing that fwells thee is thy bane; For the fame beauty, doth in bloody leaves

The sentence of thy early death contain.

Some clown's coarse lungs will poison thy sweet flow'r,
If by the careless plough thou shalt be torn,
And many Herods lie in wait each hour,

To murder thee as foon as thou art born.
Nay, force thy bud to blow, their tyrant breath
Anticipating life to haften death.

LORD ROCHESTER.

SONG.

INSULTING beauty, you mis-fpend 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 fo partial are, Or mankind is fo dull,

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

They find you not fo killing fair, you merciful.

To wish

They, an inglorious freedom boaft;
I triumph in my chain;
Nor am I unreveng'd, though loft,
Nor you unpunish'd, though unjuft,
When I alone, who love you most,

Am kill'd with your difdain.

LORD BRISTOL.

SEE, O fee!

SONG.

How every tree,

Every bower,

Every flower,

A new life gives to others' joys,

Whilft that I

Grief-stricken lie,

Nor can meet

With any sweet

But what fafter mine destroys.

What are all the fenfes' pleasures,

When the mind hath loft all measures?

Hear, O hear!

How fweet and clear

The nightingale,

And waters fall

In concert join for others' ears,

Whilft to me,

For harmony,
Every air

Echoes despair,

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

When the mind hath lost all measures?

G. HERBERT.

LIFE.

I MADE a pofy, while the day ran by:
Here will I fmell my remnant out, and tie
My life within this band.

But time did beckon to the flow'rs, and they
By noon, moft cunningly, did steal away,

And wither in my hand.

My hand was next to them, and then my heart;
I took, without more thinking, in good part,

Time's gentle admonition;

Who did fo fweetly death's fad tafte convey,

Making my mind to smell my fatal day,

Yet fug'ring the fufpicion.

Farewel, dear flow'rs! fweetly your time ye spent, Fit, while ye liv'd, for smell and ornament,

And after death for cures.

I follow ftraight, without complaints or grief,
Since, if my scent be good, I care not if

It be as fhort as yours.

MRS. BEH N.

SONG.

Love in fantastic triumph fat,

While bleeding hearts around him flow'd, For whom fresh pains he did create,

And strange tyrannic pow'r he show'd: From thy bright eyes he took his fire, Which round about in fport he hurl'd; But 'twas from mine he took defire, Enough t' inflame the amorous world.

From me he took his fighs and tears,
From thee his pride and cruelty,
From me his languishment and fears,
And ev'ry killing dart from thee.
Thus thou and I the god have arm'd,
And fet him up a deity;

But my poor heart alone is harm'd,
Whilst thine the victor is, and free.

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