'Tis affection but dissembled,

Or dissembled liberty,

To pretend thy passion changed With changes of thy mistress' eye, Following her inconstancy.

Hopes, which do from favour flourish,

May perhaps as soon expire

As the cause which did them nourish,
And disdain'd they may retire;
But love is another fire.

For if beauty cause thy passion,
If a fair resistless eye
Melt thee with its soft expression,
Then thy hopes will never die,
Nor be cured by cruelty.

"Tis not scorn that can remove thee,

For thou either wilt not see
Such loved beauty not to love thee,
Or will else consent that she
Judge not as she ought of thee.
Thus thou either canst not sever

Hope from what appears so fair,
Or, unhappier, thou canst never
Find contentment in despair,
Nor make love a trifling care.
There are seen but few retiring

Steps in all the paths of love,
Made by such who in aspiring

Meeting scorn their hopes remove;
Yet even these ne'er change their love.

WILLIAM CARTWRIGHT was the son of an innkeeper at Cirencester, who had been reduced to that situation by spending a good estate. He was a king's scholar at Westminster, and took orders at Oxford, where he became, says Wood, “a most florid and seraphic preacher." Bishop Duppa, his intimate friend, appointed him succentor of the church of Salisbury in 1642. In the same year he was one of the council of war, or delegacy, appointed by the University of Oxford, for providing troops sent by the king to protect, or as the opposite party alleged, to overawe the universities. His zeal in this service occasioned his being imprisoned by the parliamentary forces on their arrival ; but he

was speedily released on bail. Early in the year 1643 he was appointed junior proctor of his university, and also reader in metaphysics. The latter office we may well suppose him to have filled with ability, as, according to Lloyd's account, he studied at the rate of sixteen hours a day: but he survived his appointment to it for a very short time, being carried off by a malignant fever, called the camp-disease, which was then epidemical at Oxford. Cartwright died in his thirty-second year; but he lived long enough to earn the distinguishing praise of Ben Jonson, who used to say of him, " "My son, Cartwright,

writes all like a man."

ON THE DEATH OF SIR BEVIL GRENVILLE.

Not to be wrought by malice, gain, or pride,
To a compliance with the thriving side;
Not to take arms for love of change, or spite,
But only to maintain afflicted right;
Not to die vainly in pursuit of fame,
Perversely seeking after voice and name;
Is to resolve, fight, die, as martyrs do,
And thus did he, soldier and martyr too.

When now th' incensed legions proudly came
Down like a torrent without bank or dam:
When undeserved success urged on their force;
That thunder must come down to stop their course,
Or Grenville must step in; then Grenville stood,
And with himself opposed, and check'd the flood.
Conquest or death was all his thought. So fire
Either o'ercomes, or doth itself expire:
His courage work'd like flames, cast heat about,
Here, there, on this, on that side, none gave out ;
Not any pike in that renowned stand,
But took new force from his inspiring hand:
Soldier encouraged soldier, man urged man,
And he urged all; so much example can;
Hurt upon hurt, wound upon wound did call,
He was the butt, the mark, the aim of all:
His soul this while retired from cell to cell,
At last flew up from all, and then he fell.
But the devoted stand enraged more
From that his fate, plied hotter than before,
And proud to fall with him, sworn not to yield,
Each sought an honour'd grave, so gain'd the field.
Thus he being fallen, his action fought anew :
And the dead conquer'd, whiles the living slew.
This was not nature's courage, not that thing
We valour call, which time and reason bring;
But a diviner fury, fierce and high,
Valour transported into ecstacy,
Which angels, looking on us from above,
Use to convey into the souls they love.

You now that boast the spirit, and its sway,
Show us his second, and we'll give the day:
We know your politic axiom, lurk, or fly;
Ye cannot conquer, 'cause you dare not die :
And though you thank God that you lost none there,
'Cause they were such who lived not when they were;
Yet your great general (who doth rise and fall,
As his successes do, whom you dare call,
As fame unto you doth reports dispense,
Either a
or his excellence)
Howe'er he reigns now by unheard-of laws,
Could wish his fate together with his cause.

And thou (blest soul) whose clear compacted fame,
As amber bodies keeps, preserves thy name,
Whose life affords what doth content both eyes,
Glory for people, substance for the wise,
Go laden up with spoils, possess that seat
To which the valiant, when they've done, retreat :
And when thou seest an happy period sent
To these distractions, and the storm quite spent,
Look down and say, I have my share in all,
Much good grew from my life, much from my fall.

LOVE'S DARTS.

WHERE is that learned wretch that knows
What are those darts the veil'd god throws!
O let him tell me ere I die

When 'twas he saw or heard them fly;
Whether the sparrow's plumes, or dove's,
Wing them for various loves;
And whether gold, or lead,
Quicken, or dull the head:

I will anoint and keep them warm,
And make the weapons heal the harm.

Fond that I am to ask! whoe'er
Did yet see thought? or silence hear?
Safe from the search of human eye
These arrows (as their ways are) fly:
The flights of angels part
Not air with so much art;

And snows on streams, we may
Say, louder fall than they.

So hopeless I must now endure,
And neither know the shaft nor cure.

A sudden fire of blushes shed
To dye white paths with hasty red;
A glance's lightning swiftly thrown,
Or from a true or seeming frown;
A subtle taking smile
From passion, or from guile;
The spirit, life, and grace
Of motion, limbs, and face;
These misconceit entitles darts,
And tears the bleedings of our hearts.

But as the feathers in the wing
Unblemish'd are, and no wounds bring,
And harmless twigs no bloodshed know,
Till art doth fit them for the bow;
So lights of flowing graces
Sparkling in several places,
Only adorn the parts,

Till that we make them darts; Themselves are only twigs and quills: We give them shape, and force for ills.

Beauty's our grief, but in the ore,

We mint, and stamp, and then adore :
Like heathen we the image crown,
And indiscreetly then fall down:
Those graces all were meant
Our joy, not discontent;
But with untaught desires
We turn those lights to fires,
Thus Nature's healing herbs we take,
And out of cures do poisons make.

LET God, the God of battle, rise,
And scatter his proud enemies :

O let them flee before his face,

Like smoke which driving tempests chase;
As wax dissolves with scorching fire,
So perish in his burning ire.
But let the just with joy abound;
In joyful songs his praise resound,
Who, riding on the rolling spheres,
The name of great Jehovah bears.
Before his face your joys express,
A father to the fatherless;

He wipes the tears from widows' eyes,
The single plants in families;
Enlarging those who late were bound,
While rebels starve on thirsty ground.

When he our numerous army led,
And march'd through deserts full of dread,
Heav'n melted, and earth's centre shook,
With his majestic presence struck.
When Israel's God in clouds came down,
High Sinai bow'd his trembling crown;
He, in th' approach of meagre dearth,
With showers refresh'd the fainting earth.

Where his own flocks in safety fed,
The needy unto plenty led.
By him we conquer.—Virgins sing
Our victories, and timbrels ring:
He kings with their vast armies foils,
While women share their wealthy spoils.

When he the kings had overthrown,
Our land like snowy Salmon shone.

God's mountain Bashan's mount transcends,
Though he his many heads extends.
Why boast ye so, ye meaner hills?
God with his glory Zion fills,
This his beloved residence,
Nor ever will depart from hence.
His chariots twenty thousand were,
Which myriads of angels bear,
He in the midst, as when he crown'd
High Sinai's sanctified ground.
Lord, thou hast raised thyself on high,
And captive led captivity.

O praised be the God of Gods,
Who with his daily blessings loads;
The God of our salvation,

On whom our hopes depend alone;

The controverse of life and death Is arbitrated by his breath.

Thus spoke Jehovah : Jacob's seed
I will from Bashan bring again,
And through the bottom of the main,
That dogs may lap their enemies' blood,
And they wade through a crimson flood.
We, in thy sanctuary late,

My God, my King, beheld thy state;
The sacred singers march'd before,
Who instruments of music bore,
In order follow'd-every maid
Upon her pleasant timbrel play'd.
His praise in your assemblies sing,
You who from Israel's fountain spring,
Nor little Benjamin alone,

But Judah, from his mountain-throne;
The far-removed Zebulon,

And Napthali, that borders on

Old Jordan, where his stream dilates,
Join'd all their powers and potentates.
For us his winged soldiers fought;

Lord, strengthen what thy hand hath wrought!
He that supports a diadem

To thee, divine Jerusalem !
Shall in devotion treasure bring,

To build the temple of his King.

Far off from sun-burnt Meroë,
From falling Nilus, from the sea
Which beats on the Egyptian shore,
Shall princes come, and here adore.
Ye kingdoms through the world renown'd,
Sing to the Lord, his praise resound;
He who heaven's upper heaven bestrides,
And on her aged shoulders rides ;
Whose voice the clouds asunder rends,
In thunder terrible descends.

O praise his strength, whose majesty
In Israel shines-his power on high !
He from his sanctuary throws

A trembling horror on his foes,
While us his power and strength invest;

O Israel, praise the ever-blest!

[Mr. Campbell's extract, selected to show the strength of Sandys, gives no idea of his greatest merit, the effect his taste and knowledge of our language had in harmonising the numbers of our couplet verse. Dryden, who allows him but slender talents as a translator, calls him, however, "the ingenious and learned Sandys, the best versifier of the former age." His versification is his chief excellence; he studied the well-placing of words for the sweetness of pronunciation, and gave us Ovid in smoothsliding verse:

With so much sweetness and unusual grace,

that if he does not deserve the whole eulogy of Drayton, he merits his epithet of dainty, which, when said of his heroic verse, is not only poetical but appropriate.]