Shall I by the erring light

Of two crossing stars still sail, That do shine, but shine in spite,

Not to guide but make me fail?
I a wandering course may steer,
But the harbour ne'er come near.

Whilst these thoughts my soul possess
Reason passion would o'ersway,
Bidding me my flames suppress
Or divert some other way:
But what reason would pursue,
That my heart runs counter to.

So a pilot, bent to make

Search for some unfound-out land, Does with him the magnet take, Sailing to the unknown strand : But that, steer which way he will, To the loved North points still.

FALSE LYCORIS.

Lately, by clear Thames, his side,
Fair Lycoris I espied,

With the pen of her white hand

These words printing on the sand:

None Lycoris doth approve

But Mirtillo for her love.

Ah, false Nymph! those words were fit

In sand only to be writ:

For the quickly rising streams

Of Oblivion and the Thames

In a little moment's stay

From the shore wash'd clean away
What thy hand had there impress'd,

And Mirtillo from thy breast.

RICHARD BROME.

16**-1652.

BEGGARS' SONG.

Come! come away! the Spring,
By every bird that can but sing
Or chirp a note, doth now invite
Us forth to taste of his delight,

In field, in grove, on hill, in dale;
But above all the nightingale,

Who in her sweetness strives to outdo
The loudness of the hoarse cuckoo.

Cuckoo! cries he; jug, jug, jug! sings she:

From bush to bush, from tree to tree.

Why in one place then tarry we?

Come away! Why do we stay?
We have no debt or rent to pay;
No bargains or accompts to make;
Nor land nor lease, to let or take.
Or if we had, should that remore us
When all the world's our own before us,
And where we pass and make resort
It is our kingdom and our court.

Cuckoo! cries he; jug, jug, jug! sings she :
From bush to bush, from tree to tree.
Why in one place then tarry we ?

ALEXANDER BROME.

1620-1666.

THE RESOLVE.

Tell me not of a face that's fair,

Nor lip and cheek that's red,
Nor of the tresses of her hair,
Nor curls in order laid,
Nor of a rare seraphic voice

That like an angel sings!

Though, if I were to take my choice,

I would have all these things.
But if that thou wilt have me love,
And it must be a She,

The only argument can move

Is that she will love me.

The glories of your ladies be
But metaphors of things,
And but resemble what we see

Each common object brings:
Roses out-red their lips and cheeks,
Lilies their whiteness stain ;
What fool is he that shadows seeks
And may the substance gain?
Then if thou'lt have me love a Lass,
Let it be one that's kind!

Else I'm a servant to the glass
That's with Canary lined.

PALINODE.

No more, no more of this, I vow!
'Tis time to leave this fooling now,
Which few but fools call wit.

There was a time when I begun,
And now 'tis time I should have done
And meddle no more with it:
He physic's use doth quite mistake,
Who physic takes for physic's sake.

My heat of youth, and love, and pride,
Did swell me with their strong spring-tide,
Inspired my brain and blood;

And made me then converse with toys
Which are call'd Muses by the boys,

And dabble in their flood.

I was persuaded in those days
There was no crown like love and bays.

But now my youth and pride are gone,
And age and cares come creeping on,
And business checks my love :
What need I take a needless toil
To spend my labour, time, and oil,
Since no design can move?

For now the cause is ta'en away
What reason is't the effect should stay?

'Tis but a folly now for me

To spend my time and industry
About such useless wit:

For when I think I have done well,
I see men laugh, but can not tell
Where't be at me or it.

Great madness 'tis to be a drudge,
When those that can not write dare judge.

Besides the danger that ensu'th

To him that speaks or writes the truth,

The premium is so small:

To be call'd Poet and wear bays,

And factor turn of songs and plays,—

This is no wit at all.

Wit only good to sport and sing

Is a needless and an endless thing.

Give me the wit that can't speak sense,
Nor read it but in's own defence,

Ne'er learn'd but of his Gran'am!
He that can buy and sell and cheat
May quickly make a shift to get

His thousand pound per annum ; And purchase without more ado The poems, and the poet too.

ANDREW MARVELL.

1621-1678.

THE PICTURE OF LITTLE T. C.

In a prospect of flowers.

See! with what simplicity

This Nymph begins her golden days. In the green grass she loves to lie,

And there with her fair aspect tames

The wilder flowers, and gives them names;
But only with the roses plays,

And them does tell

What colour best becomes them, and what smell.

Who can foretell for what high cause

This Darling of the Gods was born?

Yet this is She whose chaster laws
The wanton Love shall one day fear,
And, under her command severe,

See his bow broke and ensigns torn.
Happy who can

Appease this virtuous enemy of man!

O then let me in time compound;

And parley with those conquering eyes
Ere they have tried their force to wound,
Ere with their glancing wheels they drive
In triumph over hearts that strive,

And them that yield but more despise !
Let me be laid

Where I may see the glories from some shade!

Meantime, whilst every verdant thing
Itself does at thy beauty charm,