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Therefore, madam, wear no cloud,
Nor to check my love grow proud ;

For, in sooth, I much do doubt
'Tis the powder on your hair,
Not your breath, perfumes the air,

And your clothes that set you out.

Yet though truth has this confessid,
And I vow I love in jest,

When I next begin to court,
And protest an amorous flame,
You will swear I in earnest am,

Bedlam ! this is pretty sport.

EDMUND WALLER.

BORN 1605-DIED 1687.

The statue of this elegant rhymist seems to be gradually

mouldering away in that niche in the Temple of Fame which it long occupied,

-not from any sudden accident, but by the mere effects of time on its brittle and worthless, though finely-wrought materials. The works of Waller are, however, still embodied in the voluminous editions of the poets; and Johnson, who has passed over Chaucer, Spenser, Surrey, Hall, Sydney, and Shak. speare, has written his life. Waller was by birth a gentleman. He went into parliament very young, wrote many verses celebrating the beauty, or deprecating the severity, of “the adorable Sacharissa," vulgarly the Lady Dorothea Sydney, and at twenty-three married a rich city heiress, whom he soon buried. " The adorable Sacharissa” married the Earl of Sunderland, and Waller, the widower, celebrated Amonet, otherwise Lady Sophia Murray; but, as he sings, “ catched at love, and filled his arms with bays." He then married a lady named Bresse, by whom he had a very large family. If not the greatest among the poets, Waller was one of the most prudent of the fraternity. In the beginning of the civil wars he was a royalist, but afterwards composed a poetical panegyric on Cromwell, and was recalled from exile. At the Restoration he became a favourite with Charles II., maintained his favour with James II., and, it is said, counselled his heir to join the Prince of Orange at the Revolution. " With all this thrift he throve not." He lost the esteem of good men of all parties; his fortune diminished; he now saw life in a light in which till then it had never presented itself; he began to write sacred poetry, and to think earnestly of death.

LOVE.

ANGER, in hasty words or blows,
Itself discharges on our foes ;
And sorrow, too, finds some relief
In tears, which wait upon our grief.
So ev'ry passion, but fond love,
Unto its own redress does move :
But that alone the wretch inclines
To what prevents his own designs ;
Makes him lament, and sigh, and weep,
Disorder'd tremble, fawn, and creep,-
Postures which render him despis'd,
Where he endeavours to be priz'd.
For women, born to be controll’d,
Stoop to the forward and the bold,

Affect the haughty and the proud,
The gay, the frolic, and the loud.
Who first the generous steed oppressid,
Not kneeling did salute the beast,
But with high courage, life, and force,
Approaching, tamed th' unruly horse.

Unwisely we the wiser East
Pity, supposing them oppress’d
With tyrants' force, whose law is will,
By which they govern, spoil, and kill :
Each nymph, but moderately fair,
Commands with no less rigour here.
Should some brave Turk, that walks among
His twenty lasses, bright and young,
And beckons to the willing dame,
Preferr'd to quench his present flame,
Behold as many gallants here,
With modest guise and silent fear,
All to one female idol bend,
Whilst her high pride does scarce descend
To mark their follies, he would swear
That these her guard of eunuchs were,
And that a more majestic queen,
Or humbler slaves, he had not seen.

All this with indignation spoke,
In vain I struggled with the yoke
Of mighty love : that conquering look,
When next beheld, like lightning strook
My blasted soul, and made me bow
Lower than those I pitied now.

So the tall stag, upon the brink
Of some smooth stream, about to drink,

Surveying there his armed head,
With shame remembers that he fled
The scorned dogs ; resolves to try
The combat next; but if their cry
Invades again his trembling ear,
He straight resumes his wonted care,
Leaves the untasted spring behind,
And, wing'd with fear, outflies the wind.

ON A GIRDLE.

THAT which her slender waist confin'd
Shall now my joyful temples bind :
No monarch but would give his crown
His arms might do what this has done.

It was my heaven's extremest sphere,
The pale which held that lovely deer.
My joy, my grief, my hope, my love,
Did all within this circle move !

A narrow compass ! and yet there
Dwelt all that's good and all that's fair :
Give me but what this ribbon bound,
Take all the rest the sun goes round.

SONG.

Go, lovely rose !
Tell her that wastes her time and me,

That now she knows,

When I resemble her to thee,
How sweet and fair she seems to be.

Tell her that's young,
And shuns to have her graces spied,

That, hadst thou sprung
In deserts, where no men abide,
Thou must have uncommended died.

Small is the worth
Of beauty from the light retir'd :

Bid her come forth,
Suffer herself to be desir’d,
And not blush so to be admired.

Then die, that she
The common fate of all things rare

May read in thee;
How small a part of time they share,
That are so wondrous sweet and fair!

WILLIAM DAVENANT.

BORN 1605—Died 1668.

There is an absurd tradition, that Sir William Davenant

was the son of Shakspeare. He was in reality the son of a vintner of Oxford. Davenant wrote some rather successful plays ; and afterwards composed masques for the court. He became manager, or, as it was then called, governor of the Drury-lane company of actors. In the civil wars he behaved with so much spirit and capacity

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