Till you, descending on our plains,
With foreign force renew my chains;
Where now you rule without control,
The mighty sovereign of my soul.

Your smiles have more of conquering charms
Than all your native country's arms;
Their troops we can expel with ease,
Who vanquish only when we please.

But in your eyes, oh, there's the spell;
Who can see them, and not rebel?
You make us captive by your stay,
Yet kill us if you go away!

A SONG

O tell Amynta, gentle swain,

JOHN DRYDEN

I would not die, nor dare complain :
Thy tuneful voice with numbers join,
Thy words will more prevail than mine.
To souls oppressed, and dumb with grief,
The gods ordain this kind relief;
That music should in sounds convey
What dying lovers dare not say.

A sigh, or tear, perhaps, she'll give,
But love or pity cannot live.

Tell her that hearts for hearts were made,
And love with love is only paid.
Tell her my pains so fast increase,
That soon they will be past redress;
But ah! the wretch, that speechless lies,
Attends but death to close his eyes.

JOHN DRYDEN

A SONG

FAIR, sweet and

young,

receive a prize

Reserved for your victorious eyes :

From crowds, whom at your feet you see,
O pity, and distinguish me!

As I from thousand beauties more,
Distinguish you, and only you adore.

Your face for conquest was designed, Your every motion charms my mind; Angels, when you your silence break, Forget their hymns to hear you speak; But when at once they hear and view, Are loth to mount, and long to stay with you.

No graces can your form improve,
But all are lost, unless you love;
While that sweet passion you disdain,
Your veil and beauty are in vain :
In pity then prevent my fate,

For after dying all reprieve 's too late.

JOHN DRYDEN

A SONG TO A FAIR YOUNG LADY, GOING OUT OF TOWN IN THE SPRING

As

SK not the cause, why sullen Spring
So long delays her flowers to bear:
Why warbling birds forget to sing,
And winter storms invert the year :
Chloris is gone, and Fate provides
To make it Spring where she resides.

Chloris is gone, the cruel fair;
She cast not back a pitying eye;
But left her lover in despair,

To sigh, to languish, and to die.
Ah, how can those fair eyes endure
To give the wounds they will not cure!

Great god of love, why hast thou made
A face that can all hearts command,
That all religions can invade,

And change the laws of every land?
Where thou hadst placed such power before,
Thou shouldst have made her mercy more.

When Chloris to the temple comes,
Adoring crowds before her fall;
She can restore the dead from tombs,
And every life but mine recall.

I only am by love designed
To be the victim for mankind.

JOHN DRYDEN

PHYLLIS, FOR SHAME

PHYLLIS, for shame, let us improve

A thousand different ways

Those few short moments snatch'd by love
From many tedious days.

If you want courage to despise
The censure of the grave,

Though love's a tyrant in your eyes

Your heart is but a slave.

My love is full of noble pride,

Nor can it e'er submit

To let that fop, Discretion, ride
In triumph over it.

False friends I have, as well as you,

Who daily counsel me Fame and ambition to pursue, And leave off loving thee.

But when the least regard I show
To fools who thus advise,
May I be dull enough to grow
As miserably wise.

A

CHARLES SACKVILLE, Earl of Dorset

TO CHLORIS

H, Chloris! that I now could sit
As unconcern'd as when

Your infant beauty could beget
No pleasure nor no pain!
When I the dawn used to admire,
And praised the coming day,
I little thought the growing fire
Would take my rest away.

Your charms in harmless childhood lay
Like metals in a mine;

Age from no face took more away
Than youth conceal'd in thine.

But as your charms insensibly
To their perfection prest,
So love as unperceived did fly,

And center'd in my breast.

My passion with your beauty grew,

And Cupid at my

heart

Still as his mother favour'd you
Threw a new flaming dart :
Each gloried in their wanton part;
To make a lover, he
Employ'd the utmost of his art-

To make a beauty, she.1

SIR CHARLES SEDLEY

NOT,

TO CELIA

OT, 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 tied 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 adored
In thy dear self I find—

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

Why then should I seek further store,
And still make love anew?

When change itself can give no more

'Tis easy to be true.

SIR CHARLES SEDLEY

1 There are two more inferior stanzas.