tioner, which is not to prolong your pain. You see, Madam, here the unhappiness of being born in our times, in which to that virtue and perfection, the Greeks and Romans would have given temples and altars, the highest thing we dare dedicate, is a play, or some such trifle. This that I now offer to your Grace, you were so kind to when it was in loose sheets, that by degrees you have trained it up to the confidence of appearing in print before you and I hope you will find it no hard matter to pardon a presumption you have yourself been accessary to, especially in one that is entirely

Madam,

Your Grace's devoted,

And obedient Servant,

CHARLES SEDLEY.'

The Play itself is uninteresting,--but little enlivened with wit,—and deficient in plot and character; but does not however disgust with its indelicacy in the same degree with some other contemporary productions.It contains the following Song, which is one of this author's best, and has been very strangely attributed of late years to Duncan Forbes, of Culloden,* set to Scotch music in consequence, and published in more than one collection of the national airs of that country.

* See the memoir of Duncan Forbes, forming the "Intreduction to the Culloden Papers," page 11. The song is printed in this place, and the editor does not spare to assert that it was written by Forbes in honour of the lady he afterwards married; he even professes, upon the testimony of a living witness, to point out the very 66 grey rock in the wood," where the poet caught his inspiration. This is too bad. The gallant Scotchman, certainly is not the first lover militant who has borrowed artillery from more accomplished combatants, to batter and assault the fortress of a lady's heart, but generally such weapons of offence-the immediate purpose of the loan accomAlished-have in due time been returned to their lawful owners

Ah, Chloris! that I now could sit,
As unconcern'd as when
Your infant beauties could beget
No pleasure nor no pain!

When I the dawn us'd to admire,
And prais'd the coming day;
I little thought the growing fire
Must take my rest away.

Your charms in harmless childhood lay,
Like metals in the mine,

Age from no face took more away,
Than youth concealed in thine.

But as your charms insensibly
To their perfection prest,
Fond love as unperceiv'd did fly,
And in my bosom rest.

My passion with your beauty grew,
And Cupid at my heart,
Still as his mother favour'd you,

Threw a new flaming dart.

In the present instance it is our business as curators of the fame of Kentish poets, to see justice done to the gay Baronet of Aylesford, who may well enough complain with the Mantuan bard.

"Hos ego versiculos feci: tulit alter honores!

We here then assert, deny it who can, Scotchman or other, that the song, which we have copied verbatim above, may be found at page 38 of the quarto edition of the "MulberryGarden," a comedy by Sir Charles Sedley, printed in 1688. We have retained the whole; Duncan Forbes threw out the two last stanzas, in doing which he shewed good taste, whatever may be said of the petty larceny. It is probable that the enamoured Caledonian felt dísposed to try the efficacy of Sedley's witchcraft," as it was called by his contemporaries, having heard of its uncommon powers over the female heart.

66

Each gloried in their wanton part;

To make a lover he

Employ'd the utmost of his art;
To make a beauty she.

Though now I slowly bend to love,

Not Celia, that I juster am

Or better than the rest,

For I would change each hour like them,

Were not my heart at rest.

But I am ty'd to very thee,
By every thought I have,
Thy face I only care to see,
Thy heart I only crave.

All that in woman is ador'd,
In thy dear self I find,

For the whole sex can but afford,
The handsome and the kind.

Why then should I seek farther store,
And still make love anew;

When change itself can give no more,
'Tis easy to be true.

TO CLORIS.

Cloris, I cannot say your eyes
Did my unwary heart surprise;
Nor will I swear it was your face,
Your shape, or any nameless grace:
For you are so entirely fair,

To love a part injustice were;

No drowning man can know which drop,
Of water his last breath did stop:
So when the stars in heaven appear,
And join to make the night look clear;
The light we no one's bounty call,
But the obliging gift of all.
He that does lips or hands adore,
Deserves them only, and no more;
But I love all and every part,
And nothing less can ease my heart.
Cupid, that lover, weakly strikes,
Who can express what 'tis he likes.

Indifference excused.

Love, when 'tis true, needs not the aid
Of sighs nor oaths to make it known;

And, to convince the cruel'st maid,
Lovers should use their love alone:

Into their very looks 'twill steal;

And he that most would hide his flame, Does in that case his pain reveal,

Silence itself can love proclaim.

This, my Aurelia, made me shun
The paths that common lovers tread;
Whose guilty passions are begun

Not in their heart, but in their head.

I could not sigh, and with cross'd arms
Accuse your rigour and my fate,
Nor tax your beauty with such charms
As men adore and women hate:

But careless liv'd, and without art,
Knowing my love you must have spy'd ;

And thinking it a foolish part,

To set to shew, what none can hide.

SONG.

Love still has something of the sea,
From whence his mother rose;
No time his slaves from doubt can free,
Nor give their thoughts repose:

They are becalm'd in clearest days,

And in rough weather tost;
They wither under cold delays,
Or are in tempests lost.

One while they seem to touch the port,
Then straight into the main,
Some angry wind in cruel sport
The vessel drives again.

At first disdain and pride they fear,
Which if they chance to 'scape,
Rivals and falsehood soon appear
In a more dreadful shape.