SEDLEY.

SONG.

PHILLIS, let's shun the common fate,

And let our love ne'er turn to hate.
I'll doat no longer than I can
Without being call'd a faithless man ;
When we begin to want discourse,
And kindness seems to taste of force,
As freely as we met we'll part;

Each one possess'd of his own heart.
Thus while rash fools themselves undo,
We'll game, and leave off savers too.
So equally the match we'll make,
Each shall be glad to draw the stake:
A smile of thine shall make my bliss,
Or I'll enjoy thee in a kiss:
If from this height our kindness fall,
We'll bravely scorn to love at all:
If thy affection first decay,

I will the blame on nature lay.
Alas! what cordial can remove
The hasty fate of dying love?
Thus we will all the world excel,
In loving and in parting well.

SONG.

NOT, Celia, that I juster am,

Or better than the rest;

For I would change each hour, like them,

Were not my heart at rest.

But I am ty'd to very thee
By ev'ry thought I have:
Thy face I only care to see,
Thy heart I only crave.

All that in woman is ador'd,

In thy dear self I find;

For the whole sex can but afford
The handsome and the kind.

Why then should I seek farther store, And still make love anew?

When change itself can give no more, 'Tis easy to be true.

SONG.

GET you gone--you will undo me,

If you love me don't pursue me;

Let that inclination perish,
Which I dare no longer cherish.

With harmless thoughts I did begin,
But in the crowd Love enter'd in;
I knew him not, he was so gay,
So innocent, and full of play.

At ev'ry hour, in ev'ry place,
I either saw, or form'd your face:
All that in plays is finely writ,
Fancy for you and me did fit.

My dreams at night were all of you,
Such as, till then, I never knew.
I sported thus with young desire,
Never intending to go higher.

But now his teeth and claws are grown,
Let me the fatal lion shun;

You found me harmless, leave me so;
For, were I not, you'd leave me too.

SONG.

HEARS not my Phillis, how the birds,

Their feather'd mates salute?

They tell their passion in their words,
Must I alone be mute?

Phillis, without frown or smile,
Sat and knotted all the while.

The god of love, in thy bright eyes,
Doth like a tyrant reign;

But in thy heart, a child he lies,
Without his dart or flame.

Phillis, &c.

So many months in silence past,
And yet in raging love;

Might well deserve one word at last,
My passion should approve.

Phillis, &c.

Must then your faithful swain expire,
And not one look obtain;

Which he, to soothe his fond desire,
Might pleasingly explain ?

Phillis, without frown or smile,
Sat and knotted all the while.

CHARLES COTTON.

TO CHLORIS.

LORD! how you take upon you still!
How you crow and domineer!

How still expect to have your will,

And carry the dominion clear,

As you were still the same that once you were! Fie, Chloris, 'tis a gross mistake,

Correct your errors, and be wise;
I kindly still your kindness take,

But yet have learn'd, though love I prize,
Your froward humours to despise,
And now disdain to call them cruelties.

I was a fool while you were fair,
And I had youth t' excuse it;

And all the rest are so that lovers are:
I then myself your vassal sware,
And could be still so (which is rare),
But on condition that you not abuse it.
'Tis beauty that to woman-kind

Gives all the rule and sway;

Which once declining, or declin❜d,

Men afterwards unwillingly obey.

Yet still you have enough, and more than needs,
To rule a more rebellious heart than mine;
For as your eyes still shoot, my heart still bleeds,
And I must be a subject still:

Nor is it much against my will,
Though I pretend to wrestle and repine.

Your beauties, sweet, are at their height,
And I must still adore ;

New years new graces still create,

Nay, maugre time, mischance, and fate,

You in your very ruins shall have more

Than all the beauties that have grac'd the world before.

SIR RICHARD FANSHAW.

THOU blushing rose, within whose virgin leaves
The wanton wind to sport himself presumes,
Whilst 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 such haste forsakes thee?
Thou'rt wondrous frolic, being to die so soon,
And passing proud a little colour makes thee.
If thee thy brittle beauty so deceives,

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

The sentence of thy early death contain.

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

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