Upon the autumn or the spring,

And spare us neither fruit nor flower; Winter would not stay an hour.

Could the resolve of love's neglect
Preserve you from the violation
Of coming years; then, more respect
Were due to so divine a fashion;
Nor would I indulge my passion.

Of English Verse.

POETS may boast, as safely vain,

Their works shall with the world remain: Both bound together, live or die,

The verses and the prophecy.

But who can hope his lines should long
Last in a daily-changing tongue?
While they are new, envy prevails,
And as that dies, our language fails.

When architects have done their part,
The matter may betray their art:

Time, if we use ill-chosen stone,

Soon brings a well-built palace down.

Poets, that lasting marble seek,
Must carve in Latin or in Greek:
We write in sand; our language gróws,
And, like the tide, our work o'erflows.

Chaucer his sense can only boast,
The glory of his numbers lost!

Years have defac'd his matchless strain,
And yet he did not sing in vain.

The beauties which adorn'd that age, The shining subjects of his rage, Hoping they should immortal prove, Rewarded with success his love.

This was the generous poet's scope,
And all an English pen can hope,
To make the fair approve his flame,
That can so far extend their fame.

Verse, thus design'd, has no ill fate,
If it arrive but at the date
Of fading beauty; if it prove
But as long-liv'd as present love.

SONG.

WHILE I listen to thy voice,
Chloris, I feel my life decay:
That powerful noise

Calls my flitting soul away.
Oh! suppress that magic sound,
Which destroys without a wound!

Peace, Chloris, peace! or singing die, That together you and I

To heaven may go:

For all we know

Of what the blessed do above,

Is that they sing, and that they love.

WILLIAM HABINGTON

Was born in 1605, of a Roman Catholic family, in Worcestershire, and educated at Paris and St Omer's. His literary accomplishments, and particularly his historical knowledge, recommended him to the favour of Charles I. at whose command he composed his "History of Edward IV." fol. 1640, in which, Wood says, his father, Thomas Habington, had a considerable hand. He also wrote "Observations upon History," 8vo. 1641 ; a tragi-comedy called "The Queene of Arragon," fol. 1640; and a small volume of love-poems under the title of" Castara;" (2d ed. 1635; 3d ed. corrected and augmented, 1640), remarkable for their unaffected tenderness and moral merit. These were addressed to Lucia, daughter of Lord Powis, whom he afterwards married. He died in 1654.

SONG.

[From "The Queene of Arragon."]

FINE young folly, though you were
That fair beauty I did swear,

Yet you ne'er could reach my heart;
For we courtiers learn at school

Only with your sex to fool;

You're not worth the serious part.

When I sigh and kiss your hand,

Cross my arms, and wondering stand,

Holding parley with your eye;

Then dilate on my desires,

Swear the sun neʼer shot such fires ;— All is but a handsome lie.

When I eye your curl or lace,
Gentle soul, you think your face
Straight some murder doth commit;
And your virtue doth begin

To grow scrupulous of my sin;—
When I talk to shew my wit.

Therefore, Madam, wear no cloud,
Nor to check my love grow proud,
For, in sooth, I much do doubt
'Tis the powder in your hair,
Not your breath, perfumes the air;
And your clothes that set you out.

Yet though truth has this confess'd,
And I vow, I love in jest ;

When I next begin to court,
And protest an amorous flame,
You'll swear I in earnest am:-

Bedlam! this is pretty sport.