And then she look'd as who shou'd say,

I will do what I list to day,

And you shall do't at night.

Her cheeks so rare a white was on,
No daisy makes comparison,

(Who sees them is undone)

For streaks of red were mingled there,
Such as are on a Katherine pear,

The side that's next the sun.

Her lips were red, and one was thin,
Compar'd to that was next her chin,

(Some bee had stung it newly);
But, Dick, her eyes so guard her face,
I durst no more upon them gaze,

Than on the sun in July.

Her mouth so small, when she does speak, Thou'dst swear her teeth her words did break, That they might passage get;

But she so handled still the matter,

They came as good as ours, or better,
And are not spent a whit.

SONG.

WHY so pale and wan,

fond lover?

Pr'ythee why'so pale?

Will, when looking well can't move her,

Looking ill prevail ?

Pr'ythee, why so pale?

Why so dull and mute, young sinner?
Pr'ythee why so mute?

Will, when speaking well can't win her,
Saying nothing do't?

Pr'ythee, why so mute?

Quit, quit for shame! this will not move,
This cannot take her;

If of herself she will not love,

Nothing can make her :-
The devil take her.

RICHARD LOVELACE.

BORN 1618-DIED 1658.

THERE is something peculiarly affecting in the fate of this gallant cavalier, and tender and elegant poet. He was the eldest son of Sir William Lovelace of Woolwich, in Kent, and, according to the old censor, Wood, who seldom overpraises poets or poetry, "was the most amiable and beautiful person that eye ever beheld,-a person of innate modesty, virtue, and courtly deportment, and much admired by the fair sex." Lovelace was for some time in the army, and in early youth suffered a long imprisonment for presenting a petition to the House of Commons, from the county of Kent, praying for the restoration of the King to his rights. He spent almost his whole fortune in the royal cause, and, when it had perished, raised a regiment for the French King, of which he was colonel. In an engagement Lovelace was severely wounded, and the lady to whom he was devoted, married,

in the alleged belief that he had died of his wounds. Lovelace afterwards returned to England, and was again imprisoned on suspicion. He died at last at freedom, but in great poverty and obscurity, in a poor lodging near Shoe-Lane, London.

TO ALTHEA, FROM PRISON.

WHEN love, with unconfined wings,
Hovers within my gates,
And my divine Althea brings
To whisper at the grates;
When I lie tangled in her hair,
And fetter'd to her eye,-

The "birds," (a) that wanton in the air,
Know no such liberty.

When flowing cups run swiftly round
With no allaying Thames,
Our careless heads with roses bound,
Our hearts with loyal flames;
When thirsty grief in wine we steep,

When healths and draughts go free,-
Fishes, that tipple in the deep,
Know no such liberty.

When, like committed linnets, I
With shriller throat shall sing
The sweetness, mercy, majesty,
And glories of my king;

(a) In the original it is "gods." The correction, which

is very happy, is Dr Percy's.

When I shall voice aloud how good He is, how great should be,Enlarged winds that curl the flood Know no such liberty.

Stone walls do not a prison make,
Nor iron bars a cage;
Minds innocent and quiet take
That for an hermitage.
If I have freedom in my love,
And in my soul am free,-
Angels alone that soar above
Enjoy such liberty.

TO A ROSE.

SWEET, serene, sky-like flower,
Haste to adorn her bower:

From thy long cloudy bed
Shoot forth thy damask head.

Vermilion ball that's given
From lip to lip in heaven;

*

Love's couch's coverlid :

Haste, haste, to make her bed.

See! rosy is her bower,
Her floor is all this flower;
Her bed a rosy nest,
By a bud of roses prest.

THE GRASSHOPPER.

O THOU that swing'st upon the waving hair
Of some well-filled oaten beard,

Drunk every night with a delicious tear, Dropp'd thee from heav'n, where now thou'rt rear'd.

The joys of earth and air are thine entire,
That with thy feet and wings dost hop and fly;
And, when thy poppy works, thou dost retire
To thy carved acorn-bed to lie.

But ah, the sickle! golden ears are cropp'd;
Ceres and Bacchus bid good night;

Sharp frosty fingers all your flow'rs have topp'd,
And what scythes spared, winds shave off quite.

Poor verdant fool! and now, green ice; thy joys
Large and as lasting as thy perch of grass,
Bid us lay in 'gainst winter, rain, and poize
Their floods with an o'erflowing glass.

TO LUCASTA, GOING TO THE WARS.

TELL me not, sweet, I am unkind,
That from the nunnery