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, To murder thee as foon as thou art born. 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; 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, Echoes despair, And every drop provokes a tear. When the mind hath lost all measures? G. HERBERT. LIFE. I MADE a pofy, while the day ran by: But time did beckon to the flow'rs, and they And wither in my hand. My hand was next to them, and then my heart; 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, 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, But my poor heart alone is harm'd, |