from which we could occupy many more pages with choice passages whose rarity would be their least recommendation--but our limits forbid.

To my only chosen Valentine and Wife.

Anagram

S Maystress Elizabeth Vincent
Is my breast's chaste Valentine

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Think not, fair love, that chance my hand directed
To make my choice my chance; blind chance and hands
Could never see what most my mind affected;

But heav'n, that ever with chaste true love stands, Lent eyes to see what most my heart respected : Then do not thou resist what heav'n commands;

But yield thee his who ever must be thine :

My heart thy altar is, my breast thy shrine; Thy name for ever is, "My breast's chaste Valentine.'

Upon my Brother, G. F. his Book, entitled "Christ's Victory, &c."

Fond lads that spend so fast your posting time

To chaunt light lays, or frame some wanton rhyme;

But thou, most near, most dear, in this of thine
Hast proved the Muses not to Venus bound;
Such as thy matter, such thy Muse, divine:
Or thou such grace with Mercy's self hast found,
That she herself deigns in thy leaves to shine;

Or stol'n from heav'n, thou brought'st this verse to ground,

Which frights the numbed soul with fearful thunder, And soon with honey'd dews thaws it 'twixt joy and

wonder!

Then do not thou malicious tongues esteem;

The glass, through which an envious eye doth gaze, Can eas❜ly make a mole-hill mountain seem; His praise dispraises; his dispraises praise; Enough, if best men best thy labours deem, And to the highest pitch thy merit raise: While all the Muses to thy song decree Victorious triumph,-triumphant Victory.

To Mr. Io. Tomkins.

Thomalin, my lief, thy music strains to hear,
More rapts my soul than when the swelling winds
On craggy rocks their whistling voices tear;

Or when the sea, if stopt his course he finds,
With broken murmurs thinks weak shores to fear,
Scorning such sandy cords his proud head binds :
More than where rivers in the summer's ray,
Through covert glades cutting their shady way,
Run tumbling down the lawns, and with the pebbles
play.

Thy strains to hear, old Chamus from his cell

Comes guarded with an hundred nymphs around: An hundred nymphs, that in his rivers dwell, About him flock, with water-lillies crown'd:

For thee the Muses leave their silver well,

And marvel where thou all their art hast found: There sitting they admire thy dainty strains, And while thy sadder accent sweetly plains, Feel thousand sug'red joys creep in their melting veins.

How oft have I, the Muses' bower frequenting,

Miss'd them at home, and found them all with thee!

Whether thou sing'st sad Eupatha's lamenting,

Or tunest notes to sacred harmony,

The ravish'd soul with such sweet notes consenting,
Scorning the earth, in heav'nly extasy

Transcends the stars, and with the angel's train
Those courts surveys; and now come back again,
Finds yet another heaven in thy delightful strain.

Ah! couldst thou here thy humble mind content,
Lowly with me to live in country cell,
And learn suspect the court's proud blandishment;
Here might we safe, here might we sweetly dwell.
Live Pallas in her tow'rs and marble tent!

But, ah! the country bow'rs please me as well:
There with my Thomalin I safe would sing,
And frame sweet ditties to thy sweeter string;,
There would we laugh at spite, and fortune's thundering

No flattery, hate, or envy lodgeth there ;
There no suspicion wall'd in proved steel,
Yet fearful of the arms herself doth wear:
Pride is not there; no tyrant there we feel;
No clam'rous law shall deaf thy music's ear;

There know no change, nor wanton fortune's wheel: Thousand fresh sports grow in those dainty places; Light fawns and nymphs dance in the woody spaces, And little Love himself plays with the naked Graces.

But, seeing Fate my happy wish refuses,

Let me alone enjoy my low estate.
Of all the gifts that fair Parnassus uses,
Only scorn'd poverty and fortune's hate
Common I find to me, and to the Muses;

But, with the muses, welcome poorest fate.

Safe in my humble cottage will I rest;

And, lifting up from my untainted breast,

A quiet spirit to heav'n,-securely live, and blest!

Strange power of HOME,* with how strong twisted

arms,

And Gordian twined knot dost thou enchain me? Never might fair Calisto's doubled charms,

Nor powerful Circe's whisp'ring so restrain me, Though all her art she spent to entertain me; Their presence could not force a weak desire; But, oh! thy powerful absence breeds still growing fire.

By night thou try'st with strong imagination
To force my sense 'gainst reason to belie it;
Methinks I see the fast-imprinted fashion

Of ev'ry place, and now I fully eye it;

And though with fear, yet cannot well deny it, "Till the morn-bell awakes me; then for spite

I shut mine eyes again, and wish back such a night.

But in the day my never-slack'd desire

Will cast to prove by welcome forgery, That for

my absence I am much the nigher; Seeking to please with soothing flattery.

Love's wing is thought; and thought will surest fly Where it finds want: then, as our love is dearer, Absence yields presence, distance makes us nearer.

"Nescio quâ natale solum dulcedine cunctos

Ducit, et immemores non sinit esse sui ?"-[OVID.] "I know not by what sweetness our native soil attracts us, and implants itself, indelibly, in our recoliection ?"

Oh! might I in some humble Kentish dale,*
For ever eas❜ly spend my slow-pac'd hours:
Much should I scorn fair Eton's pleasant vale,
Or Windsor, Tempe's self, and proudest tow'rs:
There would I sit, safe from the stormy show'rs,
And laugh the troublous winds, and angry sky;
Piping, ah! might I live; and piping might I die.

And would my lucky fortune so much grace me,
As in low Cranebrook, or high Brenchley's hill,
Or in some cabin near thy dwelling, place me;

There would I gladly sport, and sing my fill,
And teach my humble Muse to raise her quili:
And that high Mantuan shepherd' self to dare,

If ought with that high Mantuan shepherd might compare.

Me KENT holds fast with thousand sweet embraces;
There mought I die with thee, there with thee live!
All in the shades, the nymphs and naked graces
Fresh joys, and still succeeding pleasures give;
So much we sport, we have no time to grieve;
Here do we sit, and laugh white headed caring;
And know no sorrow simple pleasures marring.

* On this passage, the Editor of the Edinburgh edition remarks, "No wonder this county should be so agreeable to a man of his turn of mind, where there is a variety of green and beautiful hills, extensive woods, and noble rivers. Cranbrook and Brenchley-hill, are remarkable for their beautiful situation. Cranbrook lies low in the woody part of the country, near the river Rother, and is a pleasant village, well known at a distance by a tall spire, or steeple, formerly used as a beacon to direct sailors."