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Don't be proud 'cause we adore you,
We do't only for our pleasure ;
We by fancy weigh and measure.
Don't suppose your majesty
By tyranny's best signified, And your angelic natures be
Distinguish'd only by your pride. Tyrants make subjects rebels grow, And pride makes angels devils below, And your pride may make you so.
Palinode. No more, no more of this ! I vow 'Tis time to leave this fooling now,
Which few. but fools call wit:
And meddle no more with it.
My heat of youth, and love, and pride,
Inspir'd my brain and blood;
And dabble in their flood.
But now my youth and pride are gone,
And business checks my love,
Since no design can move ?
'Tis but a folly now for me
About such useless wit;
Whe'r 't be at me, or it. . .
The premium is so small;
This is no wit at all!
Give me the wit that can't speak sense,
Ne'er learn'd, but of his grannam;
His thousand pound per annum,
Upon his Mare, stolen by a Trooper, in 1644. Why let her go.-I'll vex myself no more, Lest my heart break, as did my stable door. 'Twas but a mare ; if she be gone, she's gone; 'Tis not a mare that I do stand upon. .
Now, by this cross! I am so temperate grown,
SIR ROBERT HOWARD,
A younger son of Thomas earl of Berkshire, was probably born about 1622, and educated at Magdalen College, Oxford. Having shared in his father's sufferings, and distinguished himself by his loyalty and courage, he became, after the Restoration, a knight, a M. P. and a place-man, and died in 1698. For a list of his dramatic and other works, and farther particulars of his life, vide Wood's Ath. II. 1018. and the Biographia Dramatica. His poems, consisting of songs and sonnets, panegyrics, translations, &c. were published, together with his first comedy, “ The Blind Lady,” in 1660 : but Sir Robert is principally known to posterity by his controversy with his brother-in-law Dryden.
To the inconstant Cynthia.
In thy fair breast, and once fair soul,
I thought my vows were writ alone:
That I no more could read my own.