SIR WILLIAM DAVENANT.

He was Poet Laureat during the reigns of Charles the Ift and 2d. His works, confifling of Gondebert, Madagascar, several fmall poems, and fixteen plays, were published in 1673, in a large volume folio.

THE DREAM.

то MR. GEORGE PORTER.

No victor, when in battle spent,
When he at night asleep doth lie
Rich in a conquer'd monarch's tent,
E'er had fo vain a dream as I.

Methought I faw the earlieft fhade,

And sweetest that the fpring can spread,
Of Jasmin, brier, and woodbine made;
And there I faw Clorinda dead.

Though dead she lay, yet could I fee
No cypress, nor no mourning yew,

Nor yet the injured lover's tree;

No willow near her coffin grew:

But all fhew'd unconcern'd to be,

As if juft nature there did strive To be as pitilefs as she

Was to her lover when alive.

And now, methought I loft all care
In lofing her; and was as free
As birds let loose into the air,
Or rivers that are got to fea.

Yet foon, now from my princess free,
I rather frantic grew than glad ;
For fubjects, getting liberty,

Get but a licence to be mad.

Birds that are long in cages aw'd,

If they get out, a while will roam; But ftraight want skill to live abroad, Then pine, and hover near their home.

And to the ocean rivers run,

From being pent in banks of flowers : Not knowing that th' exhaling fun Will fend them back in weeping show'rs.

Soon thus, for pride of liberty,

I low defires of bondage found; And vanity of being free

Bred the difcretion to be bound.

But as dull fubjects fee too late

Their safety in monarchal reign; Finding their freedom in a state

Is but proud ftrutting in a chain:

Then, growing wifer, when undone,
In winter's nights fad ftories fing,
In praise of monarchs long fince gone,
To whom their bells they yearly ring.

So now I mourn'd that she was dead Whose fingle pow'r did govern me; And quickly was by reafon led

To find the harm of liberty.

My foul, in fleep's foft fetters bound, Did now for vital freedom ftrive; And straight, by horror wak'd, I found The fair Clorinda ftill alive.

Yet she's to me but fuch a light

As are the stars to those that know ; We can at most but guess their height, And hope they mind us here below,

THE MISTRESS.

WH

HEN Nature heard men thought her old, Her skill in beauteous forms decay'd, Her eyes grown dim, her fingers cold; Then to her poet thus fhe faid:

Catch, as it falls, the Scythian fnow,
Bring blushing rofes fteep'd in milk;
From early meadows fcent, and show,
And from the Perfian worm her filk.

Fetch from the east the morning's breath,
And from the phoenix gums and fpice,
Such as the culls, when at her death
The world does fmell her facrifice.

Nature of these a mistress made,

But would have form'd a lover too; And fuch as might this nymph persuade To all that love for love should do.

This fecond work she well began,

With leisure, and by flow degrees;

But found it hard to make a man,

That could fo choice a beauty please.

She wrought, and wrought, and then gave o'er:

Then did another model try;

But, lefs contented than before,

She laid the work for ever by.

I afk'd the cause; and ftraight she said,
"Tis very poffible, I find,

To match the body which I made;
But I can never fit the mind.

For that ftill various seems and strange;
And fince all lovers various be;

And apt as mistresses to change,

I cannot make my work agree.

Now fexes meet not by defign,

When they the world's chief work advance,

But in the dark they fometimes join,
As wandering atoms meet by chance.