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HENRY DELAUNE,

A writer concerning whom nothing seems to be known, except that he published a small volume in 1651, under the title of "Пarginov Awgov, or, a legacy to his sons, being a miscellany of precepts, theological, moral, political, and œconomical, digested into seven centuries of quadrins," which was reprinted in 1657. These moral and religious epigrams (for such they are) appear to be the real dictates of paternal solicitude, and the result of long experience. A few specimens, taken casually from the concluding century, may serve as examples of the author's style; which is uniformly nervous, correct, and creditable to his learning and good sense as well as piety, but seldom very eminently poetical.

WHEN the straight columns, on whose well-knit

chine

Some stately structure leans its weighty head, Are from their centre mov'd, or made incline, The pile soon sinks, and shrinks to its first bed:

So, when you see Death's agents daily come,

And from the earth just men and good translate,

A sure and sad prognostic 'tis of some
Impending judgment on a realm or state.

Ere God on Sodom stretch'd his flaming hand,

away;

He had a care to send just Lot
So mostly still, when he will scourge a land,
Whom he best loves he puts out of the way.

Early set forth to your eternal race;

Th' ascent is steep and craggy you must climb: God, at all times, has promis'd sinners grace If they repent; but he ne'er promis'd time.

Cheat not yourselves, as most; who then prepare For death, when life is almost turn'd to fume: One thief was sav'd that no man might despair; And but one thief, that no man might presume.

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Wealth, honour, friends, wife, children, kindred, all
We so much doat on, and wherein we trust,
Are withering gourds; blossoms that fade and fall;
Landscapes in water; and deeds drawn in dust.

How

many has the morn beheld to rise

In their youth's prime, as glorious as the sun,

Who, like a flower cropt, have had their eyes Clos'd up by Death before the day was done!

Poison, a knife, a pistol, thousands more
Sad instruments, set periods to our fates.
Nature lets in to life but at one door;

But, to go forth, Death opens many gates.

RICHARD LOVELACE,

Eldest son of Sir Wm. Lovelace of Woolwich, in Kent, knt. was born in 1618, educated at the Charter-house, and Glocester-hall, Oxford, where he entered as a gentlemancommoner when 16 years of age; and while the king and queen were in the University, at the request of a great lady made to the chancellor, was created A. M. though then but of two years standing. Wood says of him, that he was "accounted the most amiable and beautiful person that eye 66 ever beheld: a person also of innate modesty, virtue, and "courtly deportment," and that he was "much admired "and adored by the female sex." He died in extreme want at a mean lodging near Shoe-lane, in 1658, after having frequently risked his life, and consumed his whole patrimony in useless efforts to serve his sovereign. He wrote two plays, never printed, called "The Scholar," and "The Soldier," and a volume of poems, 1649, 12mo. called "Lucasta," in honour of Lucy Sacheverel, a lady of great beauty and fortune, whom he usually styled Lux Casta, and who, supposing him dead of his wounds received at Dunkirk, where he commanded a regiment, married another.

After his death his "Posthume Poems" were published, in the year 1659, 12mo. by his brother, Dudley PosthumusLovelace.

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The Scrutiny.

WHY should you swear I am forsworn,

Since thine I vow'd to be?

Lady, it is already morn;

And 'twas last night I swore to thee
That fond impossibility.

Have I not lov'd thee much, and long;
A tedious twelve-hour's space?

I must all other beauties wrong,
And rob thee of a new embrace,
Could I still doat upon thy face.

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To Amarantha, that she would dishevel her hair.

AMARANTHA, sweet and fair,

Ah! braid no more that shining hair!

As my curious hand or eye,

Hovering round thee, let it fly

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