Though lusty Roger there had been,
Or little George upon the Green,

Or Vincent of the Crown.

5 But wot you what? the youth was going To make an end of all his wooing;

The parson for him staid:
Yet by his leave, for all his haste,
He did not so much wish all past

(Perchance) as did the maid.

6 The maid—and thereby hangs a tale
For such a maid no Whitsun-ale

Could ever yet produce:
No

grape that's kindly ripe could be
So round, so plump, so soft as she,

Nor half so full of juice.

7 Her finger was so small, the ring
Would not stay on which they did bring,

It was too wide a peck:
And to say truth (for out it must)
It look'd like the great collar (just)

About our young colt's neck.

8 Her feet, beneath her petticoat,
Like little mice, stole in and out,

As if they fear'd the light:
But oh! she dances such a way!
No sun upon an Easter-day

Is half so fine a sight.

9 He would have kiss'd her once or twice, But she would not, she was so nice,

She would not do't in sight;

And then she look'd as who should say
I will do what I list to-day;

And you shall do't at night.

10 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.

11 Her lips were red, and one was thin,
Compared 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.

12 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.

13 If wishing should be any sin,
The parson himself had guilty been,

She look'd that day so purely:
And did the youth so oft the feat
At night, as some did in conceit,

It would have spoild him, surely.

14 Passion o'me! how I run on!
There's that that would be thought upon,
I trow, beside the bride :

The business of the kitchen's great,
For it is fit that men should eat;

Nor was it there denied.

15 Just in the nick the cook knock'd thrice,
And all the waiters in a trice

His summons did obey;
Each serving-man with dish in hand,
March'd boldly up, like our train'd band,

Presented and away.

16 When all the meat was on the table,
What man of knife, or teeth, was able

To stay to be entreated?
And this the very reason was,
Before the parson could say grace,

The company were seated.

17 Now hats fly off, and youths carouse; Healths first go round, and then the house,

The bride's came thick and thick; And when 'twas named another 's health, Perhaps he made it hers by stealth,

And who could help it, Dick?

18 O'the sudden up they rise and dance;
Then sit again, and sigh and glance:

Then dance again and kiss.
Thus sev'ral ways the time did pass, ,
Whilst every woman wish'd her place,

And every man wish'd his.

19 By this time all were stol'n aside To counsel and undress the bride;

But that he must not know;

But yet 'twas thought he guess'd her mind,
And did not mean to stay behind

Above an hour or so.

20 When in he came (Dick), there she lay,
Like new-fall’n snow melting away,

'Twas time, I trow, to part.
Kisses were now the only stay,
Which soon she gave, as who would say,

Good-bye, with all my heart.

,

21 But just as heavens would have to cross it, In came the bridemaids with the posset;

The bridegroom eat in spite;
For had he left the women to't
It would have cost two hours to do't,

Which were too much that night.

22 At length the candle 's out, and now
All that they had not done, they do!

What that is, who can tell ?
But I believe it was no more
Than thou and I have done before

With Bridget and with Nell !

SONG.

I pray thee send me back my heart,

Since I can not have thine,
For if from yours you will not part,

Why then shouldst thou have mine?

Yet now I think on 't, let it lie,

To find it were in vain;
For thou'st a thief in either eye

Would steal it back again.

1

Why should two hearts in one breast lie,

And yet not lodge together?
O love! where is thy sympathy,

If thus our breasts thou sever?

But love is such a mystery,

I cannot find it out;
For when I think I'm best resolved,

I then am in most doubt.

Then farewell care, and farewell woe,

I will no longer pine;
For I'll believe I have her heart

As much as she has mine.

WILLIAM CARTWRIGHT.

CARTWRIGHT was born in 1611, and was the son of an innkeeper-once a gentleman-in Cirencester. He became a King's scholar at Westminster, and afterwards took orders at Oxford, where he distinguished himself, according to Wood, as a 'most florid and seraphic preacher.' One is reminded of the description given of Jeremy Taylor, who, when he first began to preach, by his young and florid beauty, and his sublime and raised discourses, made men take him for an angel newly descended from the climes of Paradise.' Cartwright was appointed, through his friend Bishop Duppa, Succentor of the Church of Salisbury in 1642. He was one of a council of war appointed by the University of Oxford, for providing troops in the King's cause, to protect, or some said to overawe, the Universities. He was imprisoned by the Parliamentary forces on account of his zeal in the Royal cause, but soon liberated on bail. In 1643, he was appointed Junior Proctor of his University, and also Reader in Metaphysics. At this time he is said to have studied sixteen hours a day. This, however, seems