424.

425.

THE

Song

HE merchant, to secure his treasure,
Conveys it in a borrow'd name :
Euphelia serves to grace my measure;
But Chloe is my real flame.

My softest verse, my darling lyre,
Upon Euphelia's toilet lay;

When Chloe noted her desire

That I should sing, that I should play.

My lyre I tune, my voice I raise;
But with my numbers mix my sighs:
And while I sing Euphelia's praise,
I fix my soul on Chloe's eyes.

Fair Chloe blush'd: Euphelia frown'd:

I sung, and gazed: I play'd, and trembled: And Venus to the Loves around

Remark'd, how ill we all dissembled.

I,

On My Birthday, July 21

MY dear, was born to-day

They bring me music, wreaths, and mirth,
And ask to celebrate my birth :
Little, alas! my comrades know
That I was born to pain and woe;
To thy denial, to thy scorn,
Better I had ne'er been born:
I wish to die, even whilst I say-
'I, my dear, was born to-day.'

I, my dear, was born to-day:
Shall I salute the rising ray,
Well-spring of all my joy and woe?
Clotilda, thou alone dost know.
Shall the wreath surround my hair?
Or shall the music please my ear?
Shall I my comrades' mirth receive,
And bless my birth, and wish to live?
Then let me see great Venus chase
Imperious anger from thy face;

Then let me hear thee smiling say—
'Thou, my dear, wert born to-day.'

426. The Lady who offers her Looking-
Glass to Venus

VENUS, take my votive glass:

Since I am not what I was,
What from this day I shall be,
Venus, let me never see.

to Lady Margaret Cavendish Holles-Harley, when a Child

Y noble, lovely, little Peggy,

MY

Let this my First Epistle beg ye,

At dawn of morn, and close of even,
To lift your heart and hands to Heaven.
In double duty say your prayer :
Our Father first, then Notre Père.

428.

And, dearest child, along the day,
In every thing you do and say,
Obey and please my lord and lady,
So God shall love and angels aid ye.
If to these precepts you attend,
No second letter need I send,
And so I rest your constant friend.

For my own Monument

S doctors give physic by way of prevention,

Mat, alive and in health, of his tombstone took care; For delays are unsafe, and his pious intention

May haply be never fulfill'd by his heir.

Then take Mat's word for it, the sculptor is paid;
That the figure is fine, pray believe your own eye;
Yet credit but lightly what more may be said,

For we flatter ourselves, and teach marble to lie.

Yet counting as far as to fifty his years,

His virtues and vices were as other men's are;
High hopes he conceived, and he smother'd great fears,
In a life parti-colour'd, half pleasure, half care.

Nor to business a drudge, nor to faction a slave,
He strove to make int'rest and freedom agree;

In public employments industrious and grave,

And alone with his friends, Lord! how merry was he!

Now in equipage stately, now humbly on foot,

Both fortunes he tried, but to neither would trust; And whirl'd in the round as the wheel turn'd about, He found riches had wings, and knew man was but dust.

This verse, little polish'd, tho' mighty sincere,
Sets neither his titles nor merit to view;
It says that his relics collected lie here,

And no mortal yet knows too if this may be true. Fierce robbers there are that infest the highway,

So Mat may be kill'd, and his bones never found; False witness at court, and fierce tempests at sea,

So Mat may yet chance to be hang'd or be drown'd. If his bones lie in earth, roll in sea, fly in air,

To Fate we must yield, and the thing is the same; And if passing thou giv'st him a smile or a tear, He cares not-yet, prithee, be kind to his fame.

429.

OF

WILLIAM WALSH

Rivals

F all the torments, all the cares,
With which our lives are curst;
Of all the plagues a lover bears,
Sure rivals are the worst!
By partners in each other kind
Afflictions easier grow;
In love alone we hate to find
Companions of our woe.

Sylvia, for all the pangs you see
Are labouring in my breast,
I beg not you would favour me,
Would you but slight the rest!
How great soe'er your rigours are,
With them alone I'll cope;
I can endure my own despair,

But not another's hope.

1663-1708

LADY GRISEL BAILLIE

1665-1746

430. Werena my Heart's licht I wad dee

THERE ance was a may, and she lo'ed na men ;

She biggit her bonnie bow'r doun in yon glen;
But now she cries, Dool and a well-a-day!
Come doun the green gait and come here away !

When bonnie young Johnnie cam owre the sea,
He said he saw naething sae lovely as me;
He hecht me baith rings and mony braw things—
And werena my heart's licht, I wad dee.

He had a wee titty that lo'ed na me,
Because I was twice as bonnie as she;

She raised sic a pother 'twixt him and his mother
That werena my heart's licht, I wad dee.

The day it was set, and the bridal to be:
The wife took a dwam and lay doun to dee;
She maned and she graned out o' dolour and pain,
Till he vow'd he never wad see me again.

His kin was for ane of a higher degree,
Said-What had he do wi' the likes of me?
Appose I was bonnie, I wasna for Johnnie-
And werena my heart's licht, I wad dee.

They said I had neither cow nor calf,
Nor dribbles o' drink rins thro' the draff,
Nor pickles o' meal rins thro' the mill-e'e—
And werena my heart's licht, I wad dee.

biggit] built. gait] way, path.
dwam] sudden illness.

may] maid.

promised. titty] sister.

suppose.

pickles] small quantities.

hecht]

appose]