Nor is my hart rebellious growne,
Since thou art still betraying,

The trust and power of Beauty's throne,
It finds no more obaying.

My loves benevolence, I say,
Though deue was freely given ;
Without a parlament, I'l pay
No subsidy to Heaven.

A routed faith, a plundred love,
And a sequestred deuty,
Are taxe and impost good enough
For thy delinquent beauty.

Call not my harts free homage, scant
Allegiance pay'd unto thee,
Least it engage, and covenant
New fealtys to undoe thee.

Revoake not back the life you give,
I'l die no doating martyr,
But question thy prerogative,
If thou repeale my charter.

Strive not thy Babell towre to build,
Or arme gainst love's free citty;
Scorne's high commission-court may yield
To freedomes grand committy.

Tempt not with thy new minion's pride
My love to wrath abetted;
Felton had not a knife more tryed,

Nor Pymme a tongue more whetted.

Nor thinke thy force, or thy deceipt,

Of art or arme can out me:

Love has his Ferfaxes to beat,

And Crumwells too to rowt thee.' pp. 54-6,

Poems collected by the Right Honourable Lady Aston occupy the third division. Almost all of them have appeared in print before, scattered through different miscellaneous collections, or attached to the works of dramatic authors. Of this fact, however, the Editor was not aware till too late. As a collection made at the time by a lady of quality and of taste, it is still curious; and the pieces, if not generally of very superior merit, will probably be new to most of our readers. The lines in Italics in the following verses addressed To Sleep' were wanting in the original MSS. and were supplied

by the Editor. They are to be found, with considerable variations, in Beaumont and Fletcher's tragedy of Valentinian.'

Care-charming sleepe, thou easer of all woes,
Brother to Death, gently thyself dispose
On this afflicted wight; tall like a cloud
In gentle showers, give nothing that is loud,
Or painfull to his slumber; ease is sweet,
When soothing dreams the wearied fancy cheat.

And as faire purling streams. thou son of night,
In softe t, sweetest, murmurs of delight
Passe by his troubled sences, 'sing his paines,
Like hollow murmuring winds, or silver raines,
Unto thy selfe gently O, gently glide

And kisse him into slumbers like a bride.' p. 134.

We are tempted to find room for some charming lines, as the Editor justly styles them, which are given in the notes, from a eurious little miscellany, entitled Westminster Drollery, or a choice collection of the newest songs and poems, both at court and the theatres. By a person of quality, London 1671.'

A Song at the Duke's House.

• O! fain would 1, before I die,
Bequeath to thee a legacy;

That thou maist say, when I am gone,
None had my heart but thou alone!
Had I as many hearts as hairs,

As

many

lives as lover's tears,

As many lives as years have hours,
They all and onely should be yours.
Dearest, before you condescend
To entertain a bosom friend,
Before your liberty you sell,

Be sure you know your servant well:
For love's a fire in young and old,

'Tis sometimes hot, and sometimes cold;

And men you know that when they please,

They can be sick of love's disease

Then wisely chuse a friend that may
Last for an age, and not a day;
Who loves thee not for lip or eye,
But for thy mutual sympathie :
Let such a friend thy heart engage,
For he will comfort thee in age;
And kiss thy furrowed wrinkled brow
With as much joy as I do now. p. 366.

This is worth whole volumes of 'Unperishable Love,' and 'Mirtillo', and 'On his mistresse going a voyage,' and 'The Irresistible Beauty,' and Philander and Phillis, &c. &c.

The poems in the fourth and last division,' says Mr. Clifford, consist of such pieces, as I found totally unconnected with each other, and written ou backs of letters, or other scraps of paper. I have prefixed to them, a Pindaric Ode,' by Dryden, two small poems, by Sir Richard Fanshawe; one by Sidney Godolphin; and one by Waller: all of which I found in the old trunk, and which, I believe, are now published for the first time. The Ode is certainly in Dryden's careless manner, with here and there a touch which betrays a master's hand, but neither of these poems, we venture to think, would have remained in the Tixall chest, with any great detriment to the fame of its author. The Poem entitled Ephelia, and the Reply, are written with considerable energy and are well deserving of preservation; but we have no room for their insertion. The Ode on Mr. Abraham Cowley's retirement,' which the notes inform us, was written by Mrs. Catherine Philips, on whose death Cowley wrote a monody, is highly creditable to that lady's genius. It begins

No, no, unfaithful world, thou hast
Too long my easy heart betray'd.'

We give the second stanza.

In my remote and humble seat
Now I'me again possest

Of that late fugitive my breast.

From all thy tumults, and from all thy heat,

I'll find a quiet and a coole retreat:

And on the fetters I have worne

Looke with experienc'd and revengefull scorne:

In this my sov'rain privacy,

'Tis true I cannot govern

thee;

But yet myself I may subdue,

And 'tis the nobler empire of the two.

If every passion had got leave

Its satisfaction to receive,

Yet I would it a higher pleasure call,

To conquer one, than to indulge them all.

We are afraid of extending this article beyond all reasonable limits, but we think no apology will be necessary for subjoining the fourth stanza, and part of the fifth, which, especially considering the date of the poem, are of no ordinary beauty. • No other wealth will I aspire

But that of nature to admire ;

Nor envy on a laurell will bestow,
While there do any in my garden grow.
And when I would be great,
"Tis but ascending to a seat,

Which nature in a lofty rock hath built;
A throne as free from trouble, as from guilt;
Where when my soul her wings doth raise,
Above what worldlings fear or praise,
With innocence, and quiet pride, I'll sit,
And see the humble waves pay tribute to my feet:
Oh! life divine, when free from joys diseas'd!
Not alwais merry, but 'tis alwais pleas'd.

A heart, which is too great a thing
To be a present for a Persian king,

Which God himselfe would have to be his court,
Where angels would efficiously resort,
From its own hight would much decline,
If this converse it should ressigne,
Ill-natur'd world for thine.

Thy unwise rigour hath thy empire lost,
It hath not only set me free,
But it hath made me see,

They only can of thy possession boast,

Who do enjoy thee least, and understand thee most.

pp. 235-7

At page 320, there is a very pleasing poem, in the same strain, entitled Retirement, which the Editor afterwards discovered, with some variations, in a Collection of Miscellaneous Poems, Letters, &c. By Mr. Brown, &c. London 1699.' It is an imitation of a French ode, by St. Evremond. As it is short, we may venture to transcribe it.

• Whatever sins by turns have sway'd me,
Ambition never reach'd my heart;

Its lewd pretences ne'er betray'd me,
In publick ills to act a part.

Let others, fame or wealth pursuing,
Despise a mean but safe retreat;
I'll ne'er contrive my own undoing,
Nor stoop so low as to be great.

The faithless court, the pensive 'change,
What solid pleasures can they give?

Oh let me in the country range,

'Tis there we breathe, 'tis there we live.

The beauteous scene of lofty mountains,
Smiling valleys, murmuring fountains,
Lambs in flowery pastures bleating,
Ecchos our complaints repeating:

Birds in cheerfull notes expressing
Nature's bounty, and their blessing;
Bees with busy sounds delighting,
Groves to gentle sleep inviting;
Whisp'ring winds the poplars courting,
Swains in rustic circles sporting;
These afford a lasting pleasure,
Without guilt and without measure.'

There are some fine lines on Conscience,' by Sir Edward Sherburne, but they may be found in his works. Chalmers's poets, vol. vi. p. 632. The Domesday Thought, ascribed to Mr. Flatman, is a happy specimen of the quaint morality so characteristic of the poetry of the age.

Oft when I hear a blustering wind With a tempestuous murmur join'd, fancy, Nature in this blast,

I

Practises how to breathe her last:
Or sighs for poor man's misery,
Or pants for fair eternity.

'Go to the dull church-yard, and see
Those hillocks of mortality,
Where proudest man is only found
By a small swelling in the ground.
What crouds of carcases are made
Slaves to the pick-axe and the spade!
Dig but a foot or two, to make
A cold bed for thy dead friend's sake,
'Tis odds, but in that scanty room,
Thou robb'st another of his tomb;

Or, in thy delving, smit'st upon

A shin-bone, or a cranion.' p. 249.

The following two poems, one entitled The Immortality of Poesie; to Envy,' in imitation of Ovid. Amor. Lib. 1. Eleg. 15, which the Editor believes to be the production of Mr. John Evelyn, son of the celebrated author of the "Sylva," &c. and the other by Habington, author of "Castara," entitled Cupio dissolvi. St. Paule, merit a place in any future Anthology to consist of poems of this period. There is a vast quantity of trash, which has found its way into the complete works of the English poets,' which might well be swept away to make room for the select works of neglected authors, and the fugitive foundlings, who, for want of a parent's name, have been refused admission into the corporate body of poets. Among the neglected poets, old Quarles, with all his absurdities and quiddities, deserves particular attention. The following epitaph, On Argalus and Parthenia,' is supposed to be his.