To the unconstant Cynthia.

A SONG.

TELL me once, dear, how it does prove
That I so much forsworn could be?
I never swore always to love,

I onely vow'd still to love thee:

And art thou now what thou wert then,
Unsworn unto by other men?

In thy fair breast, and once-fair soul,
I thought my vows were writ alone;
But others oaths so blurr'd the scrole,
That I no more could read my own.

And am I still obliged to pay,
When you had thrown the bond away?

Nor must we onely part in joy,

Our tears as well must be unkind :

Weep you, that could such truth destroy,

And I, that could such falseness find.

Thus we must unconcern'd remain

In our divided joys and pain.

Yet we may love, but on this diff'rent score,

You what I am,

I what you were before.

AMARANTA,

To the God of Love.

Aн, mighty Love, what power unknown,
Hast thou now used more than thy own!
It was thy conduct and designe,

But not thy power that vanquish'd mine.
As a great captain to his name,
Of every conquest joynes the fame;
Though 'twas not by his power got,
But armys by his conduct brought :
So when thou could'st not do't alone,
Thou lead'st his troops of vertues on.
And I now feel by my surprise,
Thou hast not only darts but eyes;

Just god! now take again thy arms,

And rally all I have of charms.
What pow'r and conduct cannot do,
Make his beliefe contribute to.

So, when the earth some promise shows,

That she does greater wealth inclose;

Believing men search her rich veins,

And crown their hopes with unknown gains ; May he, but at the first, incline to love,

Then to my faith, and time,

His justice, after the surprize,

Shall be more fetter'd than his eyes!

This writer enjoyed the favour of the great, and the praise of his contemporary poets. Dryden in particular esteemed him. He died a victim to drunkenness and debauchery.

To

you,

To Walter Moyle, Esq.

dear youth, in these unpolish'd strains And rural notes, your exiled friend complains. With pain, this tedious banishment I bear From the dear town, and you, the dearest there. Hourly, my thoughts present before my view, Those charming joys, which once, alas! I knew, In wine, in love, in friendship, and in you. Now Fortune has withdrawn that pleasing scene, We must not for a while appear again. Here, in its stead, unusual prospects rise, That dull the fancy, and disgust the eyes.

Black groves of trees, shook by the northern

winds,

And heavy aspects of unthinking hinds.

No beauteous nymph to fire the youthful heart,
No swain instructed in the Muses art.

Hammond alone, is from thy censure free,

Hammond, who makes the same complaint with

me:

Alike on both, the want of you

does strike, Which both repine at, and lament alike; While here I stay, condemn'd to desart fields, Deny'd the pleasures which the city yields, My fortunes, by the chance of war deprest, Lost at these years, when I might use them best. To crown your youth, conspiring graces join, Honour, and bounty, wealth and wit, are thine. With charms united, every heart you move, Esteem in men, in vanquish'd virgins, love. Tho' clog'd with cares, I drag my restless hours, I envy not the flowing ease of yours; Still may they roul with circling pleasures on; Nor you neglect to seize them, as they run. Time hastes away with an impetuous flight, And all its joys soon vanish from our sight, Which we shall mourn, we used not, while we

might.