THE JOYS OF MARRIAGE.

How uneafy is his life,

Who is troubled with a wife!

Be fhe ne'er fo fair or comely,
Be fhe ne'er fo foul or homely,
Be the ne'er fo young and toward,
Be the ne'er fo old and froward,
Be she kind, with arms enfolding,
Be fhe cross, and always fcolding,
Be fhe blithe, or melancholy,
Have she wit, or have she folly,
Be she wary, be she squand'ring,
Be she staid, or be she wand'ring,
Be she constant, be she fickle,
Be fhe fire, or be she ickle;
Be fhe pious, or ungodly,

Be fhe chaste, or what founds oddly:
Lastly, be fhe good or evil,

Be she faint, or be she devil,
Yet, uneafy is his life

Who is married to a wife.

LAURA WEEPING.

OD E.

CHASTE, lovely Laura, 'gan disclose,
Drooping with forrow from her bed;
As with ungentle show'rs the rose,
O'ercharg'd with wet, declines her head.

With a dejected look and pace,
Neglectingly fhe 'gan appear:

When meeting with her tell-tale glass,
She faw the face of forrow there.

Sweet forrow drefs'd in fuch a look,
As love would trick to catch defire;
A fhaded leaf in beauty's book,

Character'd with clandeftine fire.

Then a full shower of pearly dew,
Upon her fnowy breaft 'gan fall,
As in due homage to beftrew,

Or mourn her beauty's funeral.

Spare, Laura, fpare those beauty's twins, Do not our world of beauty drown,

Thy tears are balm for others' fins,

Thou know'ft not any of thine own.

SIR RICHARD FANSHAW.

The following extract is taken from his poems, published with the Tranflation of Il Pastor fido, 1676.—The four first lines are part of another fonnet.

THOU blufhing rofe, within whofe virgin leaves
The wanton wind to sport himself prefumes,
Whilft from their rifled wardrobe he receives

For his wings purple, for his breath perfumes.
Blown in the morning, thou fhalt fade ere noon;
What boots a life which in fuch hafte forfakes thee?
Thou 'rt wondrous frolic, being to die fo foon,
And paffing proud a little colour makes thee.

If thee thy brittle beauty fo deceives,

Know then, the thing that fwells thee is thy bane; For the fame beauty, doth in bloody leaves

The sentence of thy early death contain.

Some clown's coarse lungs will poifon thy fweet flow'r,
If by the careless plough thou shalt be torn,
And many Herods lie in wait each hour,

To murder thee as soon as thou art born.
Nay, force thy bud to blow, their tyrant breath
Anticipating life to haften death.

LORD ROCHESTER.

SONG.

INSULTING beauty, you mis-spend Those frowns upon your slave; Your scorn against such rebels bend, Who dare with confidence pretend That other eyes their hearts defend From all the charms you have.

Your conquering eyes fo partial are, Or mankind is fo dull,

That while I languish in despair

Many proud fenfeless hearts declare,

They find you not fo killing fair,
To wish you merciful.

They, an inglorious freedom boaft;
I triumph in my chain;
Nor am I unreveng'd, though loft,
Nor you unpunish'd, though unjust,
When I alone, who love you moft,

Am kill'd with your difdain.

LORD BRISTOL.

SEE, O fee!

SONG.

How every tree,

Every bower,

Every flower,

A new life gives to others' joys,

Whilft that I

Grief-ftricken lie,

Nor can meet

With any sweet

But what fafter mine destroys.

What are all the fenfes' pleasures,

When the mind hath loft all measures?

Hear, O hear!

How fweet and clear

The nightingale,

And waters fall

In concert join for others' ears,

Whilft to me,

For harmony,
Every air

Echoes despair,

And every drop provokes a tear.
What are all the fenfes' pleasures,

When the mind hath loft all measures?