'Tis true that I have nurs'd before I see you wear that pitying smile Which have still vouchsaf'd my smart, you Content thus cheaply to beguile And entertain an harmless heart: But I no longer can give way To hope which doth so little pay; And yet I dare no freedom owe, Whilst you are kind, though but in show. Then give me more, or give me less: WILLIAM CARTWRIGHT Was born, according to Wood, in 1611; and in 1628 sent to Christ Church, Oxford, where he died, soon after his nomination to the office of junior proctor, in 1643. His learning, his eloquence in the pulpit, and his poetical talents, are extolled by all his contemporaries; and his poems and plays were ushered into the world in 1651 with no less than fifty copies of commendatory verses: For this torrent of panegyric he was probably indebted to the sweetness of his manners, and his proficiency in academical learning, because his poetry, as Mr Headley has justly observed, is not remarkable for " elegance or 66 even neatness of style," though certainly recommended by "good sense and solidity." Many high testimonies to his character may be seen in the Biographia Dramatica ODE. [In "The Lady-Errant."] To carve our loves in myrtle rinds, To walk and rest, to live and die, A lover's absence say. SEE these two little brooks that slowly creep But, since it broke itself, and double glides, O Chloris, think how this presents thy love! We happy shepherds thence did thrive, and 'prove, But since 't hath been imparted to one more, But think withal what honour thou hast lost, Whilst now that swain that swears he loves thee most FALSEHOOD. [An Extract.] STILL do the stars impart their light Or shadow on the dial stand: The streams still glide and constant are: Only thy mind Untrue I find, Neglects to be Like stream or shadow, hand or star. Lesbia on her Sparrow. TELL me not of joy! there's none, Would sigh and woo, He would chirp and flatter me; He would hang the wing a while, Till at length he saw me smile, Lord! how sullen he would be! He would catch a crumb, and then Sporting let it go again; Would moisture' sip, : He would from my trencher feed; Then would hop, and then would run, And cry Phillip when he'd done; Oh! whose heart can choose but bleed? Oh! how eager would he fight, And ne'er hurt though he did bite. No morn did pass, But on my glass |