Or so many schisms and sects, Both in church and common-weal? No, there's nought on earth I fear In my Thus to love, and thus to live, Thus to take, and thus to give, Thus to laugh, and thus to sing, Thus to mount on pleasure's wing, Thus to sport, and thus to speed, Thus to flourish, nourish, feed, Thus to spend, and thus to spare, Is to bid a fig for care. WILLIAM BROWN, Seems to have been born about 1590, at Tavistock, in Devon. shire, educated at Oxford, and afterwards at the Middle Temple, where he published, in 1813, the first part of his "Britannia's Pastorals." In 1614 was published his "Shepherd's Pipe," and, two years after, the second part of the Pastorals. In 1624 he returned to Exeter college, and became tutor to Robert Dormer, afterwards earl of Carnarvon. He then went into the family of the earl of Pembroke, and is supposed to have died in 1645. An elegant edition of his works, which were become extremely scarce, was published in 1772, in three small volumes, by Mr. Davies. We are obliged to Brown for having preserved, in his Shepherd's Pipe, a curious poem by Occleve. Mr. Warton supposes his works to "have been well known to Milton." SONG. [In Britannia's Pastorals.] SHALL I tell you whom I love? Hearken then a while to me: And if such a woman move Nature did her so much right, As she scorns the help of art; In as many virtues dight As e'er yet embrac'd a heart; So much good, so truly tried, Some for less were deified. Wit she hath, without desire To make known how much she hath : And her anger flames no higher Than may fitly sweeten wrath; Full of pity as may be, Reason masters every sense, And her virtues grace her birth; Lovely as all excellence, Modest in her most of mirth; Likelihood enough to prove Such she is; and if you know Such a one as I have sung, Be she brown, or fair, or-so, Be assur'd 'tis she, or none, That I love, and love alone. THYRSIS'S PRAISE TO HIS MISTRESS. [From England's Helicon.] On a hill that grac'd the plain Comelier swain ne'er graced a hill; Thus he tuned his oaten quill: Ver hath made the pleasant field They in pleasing passen all. Leafy groves now mainly ring Notes that make the echoes long : Fairly spreads the damask rose, Beauties, pencils cannot feign: Fields are blest with flow'ry wreath, THE SYREN'S SONG. [In the Inner Temple Mask.] STEER, hither steer, your winged pines, All beaten mariners! Here lie love's undiscover'd mines, A prey to passengers. Perfumes far sweeter than the best Which make the phoenix' urn and nest, Fear not your ships, Nor any to oppose you, save our lips; |