417.

JOHN SHEFFIELD, DUKE OF

BUCKINGHAMSHIRE

The Reconcilement

'OME, let us now resolve at last
To live and love in quiet;
We'll tie the knot so very fast
That Time shall ne'er untie it.

The truest joys they seldom prove
Who free from quarrels live:
'Tis the most tender part of love
Each other to forgive.

When least I seem'd concern'd, I took

No pleasure nor no rest;

And when I feign'd an angry look,
Alas! I loved you best.

Own but the same to me-you'll find

How blest will be our fate.

O to be happy to be kind

Sure never is too late!

1649-1720

418. On One who died discovering her Kindness

COME vex their souls with jealous pain,

SOME

While others sigh for cold disdain :
Love's various slaves we daily see-
Yet happy all compared with me!

419.

Of all mankind I loved the best
A nymph so far above the rest
That we outshined the Blest above;
In beauty she, as I in love.

And therefore They, who could not bear
To be outdone by mortals here,
Among themselves have placed her now,
And left me wretched here below.

All other fate I could have borne,
And even endured her very scorn;
But oh! thus all at once to find
That dread account-both dead and kind!
What heart can hold? If yet I live,
'Tis but to show how much I grieve.

1652-1685

I

THOMAS OTWAY

The Enchantment

DID but look and love awhile, 'Twas but for one half-hour; Then to resist I had no will,

And now I have no power.

To sigh and wish is all my ease;
Sighs which do heat impart
Enough to melt the coldest ice,
Yet cannot warm your heart.

O would your pity give my heart
One corner of your breast,

"Twould learn of yours the winning art,
And quickly steal the rest.

420.

JOHN OLDHAM

A Quiet Soul

1653-1683

THY
'HY soul within such silent pomp did keep,
As if humanity were lull'd asleep;
So gentle was thy pilgrimage beneath,

Time's unheard feet scarce make less noise,
Or the soft journey which a planet goes:
Life seem'd all calm as its last breath.
A still tranquillity so hush'd thy breast,
As if some Halcyon were its guest,
And there had built her nest;
It hardly now enjoys a greater rest.

421.

JOHN CUTTS, LORD CUTTS

Song

NLY tell her that I love:

ONLY

Leave the rest to her and Fate:

Some kind planet from above

1661-1707

May perhaps her pity move:

Lovers on their stars must wait.—

Only tell her that I love!

Why, O why should I despair!
Mercy's pictured in her eye:
If she once vouchsafe to hear,
Welcome Hope and farewell Fear!
She's too good to let me die.—
Why, O why should I despair?

422,

MATTHEW PRIOR

The Question to Lisetta

1664-1721

WHAT nymph should I admire or trust,

But Chloe beauteous, Chloe just?
What nymph should I desire to see,
But her who leaves the plain for me?
To whom should I compose the lay,
But her who listens when I play?
To whom in song repeat my cares,
But her who in my sorrow shares?
For whom should I the garland make,
But her who joys the gift to take,
And boasts she wears it for my sake?
In love am I not fully blest?
Lisetta, prithee tell the rest.

LISETTA'S REPLY

Sure Chloe just, and Chloe fair,
Deserves to be your only care;
But, when you and she to-day
Far into the wood did stray,
And I happen'd to pass by,
Which way did you cast your eye?

But, when your cares to her you sing,
You dare not tell her whence they spring;
Does it not more afflict your heart,
That in those cares she bears a part?
When you the flowers for Chloe twine,
Why do you to her garland join

The meanest bud that falls from mine?
Simplest of swains! the world may see
Whom Chloe loves, and who loves me.

423.

To a Child of Quality,

Five Years Old, 1704. The Author then Forty
LORDS, knights, and squires, the numerous band
That wear the fair Miss Mary's fetters,
Were summoned by her high command
To show their passions by their letters.
My pen amongst the rest I took,

Lest those bright eyes, that cannot read,
Should dart their kindling fire, and look
The power they have to be obey'd.
Nor quality, nor reputation,

Forbid me yet my flame to tell;
Dear Five-years-old befriends my passion,
And I may write till she can spell.

For, while she makes her silkworms beds
With all the tender things I swear;
Whilst all the house my passion reads,
In papers round her baby's hair;

She may receive and own my flame;

For, though the strictest prudes should know it,
She'll pass for a most virtuous dame,
And I for an unhappy poet.

Then too, alas! when she shall tear
The rhymes some younger rival sends,
She'll give me leave to write, I fear,
And we shall still continue friends.

For, as our different ages move,

'Tis so ordain'd (would Fate but mend it!), That I shall be past making love

When she begins to comprehend it.