But her constancy's so weak,

She's so wild and apt to wander, That my jealous heart would break, Should we live one day asunder.

Melting joys about her move,

Killing pleasures, wounding blisses; She can dress her eyes in love,

And her lips can warm with kisses. Angels listen if she speak,

She's my delight, all mankind's wonder: But my jealous heart would break, Should we live one day asunder.

SONG.

All my past life is mine no more,
The flying hours are gone:
Like transitory dreams given o'er,
Those 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,

Phillis, is only thine.

118

ANNE, MARCHIONESS OF WHARTON.

Then talk not of inconstancy,

False hearts and broken vows;

If I, by miracle, can be

This live-long minute true to thee,
'Tis all that heaven allows.

ANNE, MARCHIONESS OF WHARTON.

Born

died 1685.

SONG.

How hardly I conceal'd my tears,
How oft did I complain,
When many tedious days my fears
Told me I lov'd in vain!

But now my joys as wild are grown,
And hard to be conceal'd;
Sorrow may make a silent moan,
But joy will be reveal'd.

I tell it to the bleating flocks,
To every stream and tree,

And bless the hollow-murmuring rocks

For echoing back to me.

Thus you may see with how much joy

We want, we wish, believe:

'Tis hard such passion to destroy

But easy to deceive!

CHARLES MORDANT

EARL OF PETERBOROUGH.

Born 1658, died 1735.

I said to my heart, between sleeping and waking, "Thou wild thing, that always art leaping or aching, What black, brown, or fair, in what clime, in what

nation,

By turns has not taught thee a pit-a-patation ?"

Thus accused, the wild thing gave this sober reply
"See, the heart without motion, though Celia pass by
Not the beauty she has, not the wit that she borrows,
Give the eye any joys, or the heart any scrrows.

When our Sappho appears-she, whose wit so refined
I am forced to applaud with the rest of mankind-
Whatever she says is with spirit and fire;
Every word I attend, but I only admire.

• Prudentia as vainly would put in her claim,
Ever gazing on heaven, though man is her aim:
"Tis love, not devotion, that turns up her eyes—
Those stars of this world are too good for the skies.

"But Chloe so lively, so easy, so fair,
Her wit so genteel, without art, without care,
When she comes in my way-the motion the pain,
The leapings, the achings, return all again."

120

BARON GOWRAN.

O wonderful creature! a woman of reason!
Never grave out of pride, never gay out of season;
When so easy to guess who this angel should be,"
Would one think Mrs. Howard ne'er dreamt it was she?

Only tell her that I love,

Leave the rest to Her and Fate!

Some kind planet, from above,

May perhaps her pity move:

Lovers on their stars must wait:

Only tell her, that I love!

Why, ob, why should I despair?
Mercy's pictur'd in her eye:
If she once vouchsafe to hear,
Welcome hope, and welcome fear,
She's too good to let me die;
Why, oh, why should I despair!

FRANCIS ATTERBURY.

Born 1662, died 1731-2.

ON A FAN.

Flavia the least and slightest toy
Can with resistless art employ!
This Fan in meaner hands would prove
An engine of small force in love:
Yet she with graceful air and mien,
Not to be told, or safely seen,
Directs its wanton motions so

That it wounds more than Cupid's bow;
Gives coolness to the machless dame,
To every other breast—a flame !

MATTHEW PRIOR.

Born 1664, died 1721.

SONG.

While from our looks, fair nymph, you guess
The secret passions of the mind;

My heavy eyes, you say, confess
A heart to love and grief inclin'd.