Be kind to her, and, prithee, look Which in thy casket shrined doth lie: Sleep on, my love, in thy cold bed My last good night! Thou wilt not wake Till I thy fate shall overtake: Till age, or grief, or sickness must It so much loves, and fill the room And follow thee with all the speed 'Tis true, with shame and grief I yield, Thou like the van first took'st the field, And gotten hast the victory, In thus adventuring to die Before me, whose more years might crave But hark! my pulse like a soft drum I shall at last sit down by thee. With hope and comfort. Dear, (forgive SONG. Dry those fair, those crystal eyes, To drown their banks: grief's sullen brooks To be the shore of discontent. Then clear those waterish stars again, SIR ROBERT HOWARD. 1622-1698. [“Poems." (?) 1660.] TO THE INCONSTANT CYNTHIA. TELL me once, dear, how it does prove I never swore always to love, I only vowed still to love thee: And art thou now what thou wert then, In thy fair breast, and once fair soul, And am I still obliged to pay, Nor must we only part in joy; Our tears as well must be unkind: Weep you, that could such truth destroy, And I, that could such falseness find! Yet we may love, but on this different score, You what I am, I what you were before. CHARLES SACKVILLE. EARL OF DORSET. 1637-1706. SONG. WRITTEN AT SEA, THE FIRST DUTCH WAR, 1665, THE NIGHT BEFORE AN ENGAGEMENT. To all you ladies now at land, But first would have you understand The Muses now, and Neptune too, We must implore to write to you. For though the Muses should prove kind, Yet if rough Neptune rouse the wind, Our paper, pen, and ink, and we, Roll up and down our ships at sea. Then if we write not by each post, By Dutchmen or by wind: Our tears we'll send a speedier way; The King with wonder and surprise, Should foggy Opdam chance to know The Dutch would scorn so weak a foe, And quit their fort at Goree; For what resistance can they find From men who've left their hearts behind? With a fa la, la, la, la. Let wind and weather do its worst, Be you to us but kind; Let Dutchmen vapour, Spaniards curse, 'Tis then no matter how things go, Or who's our friend, or who's our foe. To pass our tedious hours away, Or else at serious ombre play; Each other's ruin thus pursue? But now our fears tempestuous grow, |