Why dost thou build up stately rooms on high,
Thou who art under ground to lie?

Thou sowest, and plant'st, but no fruit must see,
For death, alas! is reaping thee.

Suppose thou fortune couldst to tameness bring,
And clip or pinion her wing;

Suppose thou couldst on fate so far prevail,
As not to cut off thy entail;

Yet death at all that subtlety will laugh;
Death will that foolish gardener mock,
Who does a slight and annual plant ingraff
Upon a lasting stock.

Thou dost thyself wise and industrious deem;

A mighty husband thou wouldst seem;

Fond man! like a bought slave, thou all the while Dost but for others sweat and toil.

Officious fool! that needs must meddling be

In business that concerns not thee;

For when to future years thou extend'st thy cares, Thou deal'st in other men's affairs.

Even aged men, as if they truly were
Children again, for age prepare;
Provisions for long travel they design,
In the last point of their short line.

Wisely the ant against poor winter hoards The stock which summer's wealth affords ; In grasshoppers, which must at autumn die, How vain were such an industry!

Of power

and honour the deceitful light Might half excuse our cheated sight; If it of life the whole small time would stay And be our sunshine all the day.

Like lightning that begot but in a cloud
(Though shining bright and speaking loud),
Whilst it begins, concludes its violent race,
And where it gilds it wounds the place.

Oh scene of fortune, which dost fair

appear

Only to men that stand not near !
Proud, Poverty, that tinsel bravery wears,
And, like a rainbow, painted tears!

Be prudent, and the shore in prospect keep;
In a weak boat trust not the deep;
Placed beneath envy, above envying rise;
Pity great men, great things despise.

The wise example of the heavenly lark,
Thy fellow-poet, Cowley! mark;
Above the clouds let thy proud music sound;

Thy humble nest build on the ground.

John Gay.

Born 1688. Died 1732.

BLACK-EYED SUSAN.

ALL in the Downs the fleet was moored,
The streamers waving in the wind,
When black-eyed Susan came aboard;
"O! where shall I my true-love find?
Tell me, ye jovial sailors, tell me true
If my sweet William sails among the crew."

William, who high upon the yard,
Rocked with the billow to and fro,
Soon as her well-known voice he heard,
He sighed, and cast his eyes below:
The cord slides swiftly through his glowing hands,
And quick as lightning on the deck he stands.

So the sweet lark, high poised in air,

Shuts close his pinions to his breast,
If chance his mate's shrill call he hear,
And drops at once into her nest :—
The noblest captain in the British fleet
Might envy
William's lip those kisses sweet.

"O Susan, Susan, lovely dear,

My vows shall ever true remain;

Let me kiss off that falling tear;

We only part to meet again.

Change as ye list, ye winds; my heart shall be
The faithful compass that still points to thee.

"Believe not what the landmen say,

Who tempt with doubts thy constant mind:
They'll tell thee, sailors, when away,
In every port a sweetheart find:

Yes, yes, believe them when they tell thee so,
For thou art present wheresoe'er I go.

"If to fair India's coast we sail,

Thy eyes are seen in diamonds bright,

Thy breath is Afric's spicy gale,
Thy skin is ivory so white.

Thus every beauteous object that I view
Wakes in my soul some charm of lovely Sue.

Though battle call me from thy arms,

Let not my pretty Susan mourn ;

Though cannons roar, yet safe from harms

William shall to his dear return.

Love turns aside the balls that round me fly,
Lest precious tears should drop from Susan's eye."

The boatswain gave the dreadful word,

The sails their swelling bosom spread;

No longer must she stay aboard;

They kissed, she sighed, he hung his head. Her lessening boat unwilling rows to land; "Adieu!" she cries; and waved her lily hand.

John Lyly.

Born 1553. Died 1600.

CUPID AND CAMPASPE.

CUPID and my Campaspe played

At cards for kisses; Cupid paid:

He stakes his quiver, bow and arrows,
His mother's doves, and team of sparrows;

Loses them, too; then down he throws
The coral of his lip, the rose

Growing on's cheek (but none knows how),
With these the crystal of his brow,
And then the dimple of his chin;
All these did my Campaspe win.
At last he set her both his eyes,
She won, and Cupid blind did rise.

O Love! has she done this to thee?
What shall, alas! become of me?