Or, after a few moments dear,
He disappear,

And at last

Perish entirely like a beaft.

But women, wine, and mirth, we know,
Are all the joys he has below;
Then let us ply those joys we have,
'Tis vain to think beyond the grave.
Out of our reach the gods have laid
Of time to come the event,
And laugh to see the fools afraid

Of what the knaves invent.

SONG.

[1671.]

SIR CHARLES SEDLEY.

I.

COME, Chloris, hie we to the bower,
To sport us ere the day be done:
Such is thy power that every flower
Will ope to thee as to the sun.

II.

And if a flower but chance to die

With my fighs' blaft, or mine eyes' rain, Thou canst revive it with thine eye,

And with thy breath make sweet again.

The wanton suckling, and the vine,
Will ftrive for th' honour, who first may
With their green arms encircle thine,.

To keep the burning sun away.

THE ACADEMY OF COMPLIMENTS.

LOVE'S BRAVO.

[1674.]

WHY fhould we murmur, why repine,
Phyllis, at thy fate, or mine?

Like prisoners, why do we these fetters shake,
Which neither thou, nor I, can break?
There is a better way to baffle Fate,

If mortals would but mind it,

And 'tis not hard to find it:

Who would be happy, must be desperate.
He must despise those ftars that fright
Only fools that dread the night;
Time and Chance he muft out-brave;
He that crouches is their flave.
Thus the wise Pagans, ill at ease,
Bravely chastised their surly Deities.

THOMAS FLATMAN.

SONG.

[1675.]

CUPID, I scorn to beg the art
From thy imaginary throne,
To learn to wound another's heart,
Or how to heal my own.

If he be coy, my airy mind

Brooks not a fiege; if she be kind,
She proves my scorn that was my wonder;
For towns that yield I hate to plunder.

Love is a game; hearts are the prize;
Pride keeps the stakes, art throws the dice;
When either's won,

The game is done.

Love is a coward, hunts the flying prey,
But when it once ftands ftill, Love runs away.

SIR FRANCIS FANE.

UNCERTAIN LOVE.

[1676.]

THE labouring man that plants and sows,

His certain times of profit knows ;
Seamen the roughest tempeft scorn,
Hoping at laft a rich return.

But my too much loved Celia's mind
Is more inconftant and unkind
Than formy weather, sea, or wind.

Now with affured hope raised high,
I think no man so bleft as I;

Hope that a dying saint may own,
To see and hear her speak alone.
What if I snatch one kiss, or more?
Where Heaven gives a wealthy ftore,
'Tis to be bounteous to the poor.

But ere my swifteft thought can thence
Convey a bleffing to my sense,
My hope like fairy treasure's gone,
Although I never made it known.
From all untruth my heart is clean,
No other love can enter in;

Yet Celia's ne'er will come agen.

THOMAS DUFFETT.

THE MOWER TO THE GLOW-WORMS.

[1677?]

YE living lamps, by whose dear light

The nightingale does fit so late,

And ftudying all the summer night,
Her matchless songs does meditate;

Ye country comets, that portend
No war nor prince's funeral,
Shining unto no other end

Than to presage the grass's fall;

Ye glow-worms, whose officious flame
To wandering mowers shows the way,
That in the night have loft their aim,
And after foolish fires do ftray:

Your courteous lights in vain ye waste,
Since Juliana here is come;

For fhe my mind hath so displaced,

That I shall never find my home.

ANDREW MARVELL.

LOVE AND LIFE.

[1678?]

ALL my past life is mine no more,
The flying hours are gone;
Like tranfitory dreams given o'er,
Whose images are kept in store
By Memory alone.

The time that is to come is not,
How can it then be mine?
The present moment's all my lot;
And that, as fast as it is got,
Phyllis, is only thine.

Then talk not of inconftancy,

False hearts, and broken vows;

If I, by miracle, can be

This livelong minute true to thee, 'Tis all that Heaven allows.

JOHN WILMOT, Earl of Rochefter.