John Wilmot, Earl of Rochester.

[BORN 1647. DIED 1680.]

SONG.

HILE on these lovely looks I gaze,

To see a wretch pursuing,

In raptures of a blest amaze,

His pleasing, happy ruin;
'Tis not for pity that I move;

His fate is too aspiring,

Whose heart, broke with a load of love,
Dies wishing and admiring.

But if this murder you'd forego,
Your slave from death removing,
Let me your art of charming know,
Or learn you mine of loving.
But whether life or death betide,
In love 'tis equal measure;
The victor lives with empty pride,

The vanquished die with pleasure.

Francis Atterbury, Bp. of Rochester.

[BORN 1662. DIED 1732.]

THE LOVER'S VOW.

AIR Sylvia, cease to blame my youth

For having loved before;

For men, till they have learned the truth,
Strange deities adore.

My heart, 'tis true, hath often ranged,
Like bees on gaudy flowers;

And many a thousand loves hath changed,
Till it was fixed on yours.

But, Sylvia, when I saw those eyes,
'Twas soon determined there;

Stars might as well forsake the skies,

And vanish into air.

When I from this great rule do err,

New beauties to adore,

May I again turn wanderer,

And never settle more.

William Walsh.

[BORN 1663. DIED 1709.]

RIVALRY IN LOVE.

Fall 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 of each other kind,
Affections 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 rigors are,
With them alone I'll cope;
I can endure my own despair,
But not another's hope.

II

Matthew Prior.

[BORN 1664. DIED 1721.]

SONG.

HE merchant, to secure his treasure,
Conveys it in a borrowed name;
Euphelia serves to grace my measure,
But Cloe is my real flame.

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

When Cloe 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 whilst I sing Euphelia's praise,
I fix my soul on Cloe's eyes.

Fair Cloe blushed: Euphelia frowned;

I sung and gazed; I played and trembled;

And Venus to the Loves around

Remarked how ill we all dissembled.

Aaron Hill.

[BORN 1684-5. DIED 1749-50.]

MODESTY.

S lamps burn silent with unconscious light, So modest ease in beauty shines most bright: Unaiming charms with edge resistless fall, And she who means no mischief does it all.

SONG.

H! forbear to bid me slight her,
Soul and senses take her part;
Could my death itself delight her,

Life should leap to leave my heart.

Strong, though soft, a lover's chain,
Charmed with woe, and pleased with pain.

Though the tender flame were dying,

Love would light it at her eyes; Or, her tuneful voice applying, Through my ear my soul surprise.

Deaf, I see the fate I shun;

Blind, I fear I am undone.