CII.

THE merchant, to secure his treasure,
Conveys it in a borrow'd name:
Euphelia serves to grace my measure;
But Chloe is my real flame.

My softest verse, my darling lyre
Upon Euphelia's toilet lay;
When Chloe noted her desire,

That I should sing, that I should play.

My lyre I tune, my voice I raise;
But with my numbers mix my sighs:
And while I sing Euphelia's praise,
I fix my soul on Chloe's eyes.

Fair Chloe blush'd: Euphelia frown'd:

I sung, and gazed: I play'd, and trembled:

And Venus to the Loves around

Remark'd, how ill we all dissembled.

Matthew Prior.

CIII.

ON THE LOSS OF TIME.

IF life be time that here is lent,

And time on earth be cast away,
Whoso his time hath here mis-spent
Hath hasten'd his own dying day;
So it doth prove a killing crime
To massacre our living time.

If doing nought be like to death,
Of him that doth, chameleon-wise,
Take only pains to draw his breath,

The passers-by may pasquilize,
Not, here he lives; but, here he dies.
John IIoskins.

CIV.

MEDIOCRITY IN LOVE Rejected.

GIVE me more love, or more disdain;
The torrid or the frozen zone
Bring equal ease unto my pain,
The temperate affords me none;
Either extreme of love or hate
Is sweeter than a calm estate.

Give me a storm; if it be love,

Like Danae in that golden shower,
I swim in pleasure; if it
prove

Disdain, that torrent will devour
My vulture hopes; and he's possess'd
Of Heaven that is from Hell released;
Then crown my joys or cure my pain;
Give me more love, or more disdain.

Thomas Carew.

CV.

MRS. FRANCES HARRIS' PETITION.

Written in the year 1701.

To their Excellencies the Lord Justices of Ireland.

The humble petition of Frances Harris, who must starve, and die a maid, if it miscarries.

Humbly sheweth,

That I went to warm myself in Lady Betty's chamber, because I was cold,

And I had in a purse seven pounds, four shillings, and sixpence, besides farthings, in money and gold:

So, because I had been buying things for my lady last night,
I was resolved to tell my money, and see if it was right.
Now you must know, because my trunk has a very bad lock,
Therefore all the money I have, which God knows, is a very
small stock,

I keep in my pocket, tied about my middle, next my smock.

So, when I went to put up my purse, as luck would have it, my smock was unript,

And instead of putting it into my pocket, down it slipt:
Then the bell rung, and I went down to put my lady to bed:
And, God knows, I thought my money was as safe as my
stupid head!

So, when I came up again, I found my pocket feel very light:
But when I search'd, and miss'd my purse, law! I thought
I should have sunk outright.

“Lawk, madam,” says Mary, “how d'ye do?” “Indeed,” says I, never worse:

But pray, Mary, can you tell what I've done with my purse?" 'Lawk, help me!" said Mary, "I never stirred out of this place:

"Nay," said I, "I had it in Lady Betty's chamber, that's a plain case.'

So Mary got me to bed, and cover'd me up warm:

However, she stole away my garters, that I might do myself no harm.

So I tumbled and toss'd all night, as you may very well think, But hardly ever set my eyes together, or slept a wink.

So I was a-dream'd, methought, that I went and search'd the folks round,

And in a corner of Mrs. Dukes's box, tied in a rag the money was found.

So next morning we told Whittle, and he fell a-swearing: Then my dame Wadger came: and she, you know, is thick of hearing:

"Dame," said I, as loud as I could bawl, "do you know what a loss I have had?"

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"Nay," said she, "my Lord Colway's folks are all very sad; For my Lord Dromedary comes a Tuesday without fail." "Pugh!" said I, "but that's not the business that I ail." Says Cary, says he, "I've been a servant this five-andtwenty years come spring,

And in all the places I lived I never heard of such a thing." "Yes," says the Steward, "I remember, when I was at my Lady Shrewsbury's.

Such a thing as this happen'd, just about the time of gooseberries."

So I went to the party suspected, and I found her full of grief,

(Now, you must know, of all things in the world I hate a

thief,)

However, I was resolved to bring the discourse slily about: "Mrs. Dukes," said I, "here's an ugly accident has happen'd out:

"Tis not that I value the money three skips of a mouse;

But the thing I stand upon is the credit of the house.

'Tis true, seven pounds, four shillings, and sixpence, makes a great hole in my wages:

Besides, as they say, service is no inheritance in these ages. Now, Mrs. Dukes, you know, and everybody understands, That tho' 'tis hard to judge, yet money can't go without hands."

"The devil take me," said she (blessing herself), "if ever I saw't!"

So she roar'd like a Bedlam, as tho' I had called her all to nought.

So you know, what could I say to her any more?

I e'en left her, and came away as wise as I was before.
Well; but then they would have had me gone to the cunning

man:

"No," said I, "'tis the same thing, the chaplain will be here

So the chaplain came in. Now the servants say he is my sweetheart,

Because he's always in my chamber, and I always take his

part.

So, as the devil would have it, before I was aware, out I blunder'd,

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"Parson,” said I, can you cast a nativity when a body's plunder'd?"

(Now you must know, he hates to be called parson, like the devil.)

“Truly,” says he, “Mrs. Nab, it might become you to be more civil;

If your money be gone, as a learned divine says, d'ye see:
You are no text for my handling; so take that from me :
I was never taken for a conjuror before, I'd have you to
know."

"Law!" said I, "don't be angry, I am sure I never thought

you so;

You know I honour the cloth; I design to be a parson's wife, I never took one in your coat for a conjuror in all my life." With that, he twisted his girdle at me like a rope, as who

should say,

"Now you may go hang yourself for me!" and so went away.

Well: I thought I should have swoon'd, "Law!” said I, "what shall I do?

I have lost my money, and shall lose my true love too!" Then my Lord called me: "Harry," said my Lord, "don't cry,

I'll give you something towards your loss;" and, says my Lady, so will I.

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"O, but," said I, "what if, after all, the chaplain won't come to ?"

For that, he said, (an't please your Excellencies,) I must peti

tion you.

The premises tenderly consider'd, I desire your Excellencies' protection,

And that I may have a share in next Sunday's collection; And, over and above, that I may have your Excellencies' letter,

With an order for the chaplain aforesaid, or, instead of him, a better:

And then your poor petitioner both night and day,

Or the chaplain (for 'tis his trade), as in duty bound, shall ever pray.

Jonathan Swift.

CVI.

WHEN thy beauty appears

In its graces and airs,

All bright as an angel new dropt from the sky; At distance I gaze, and am awed by my fears,

So strangely you dazzle my eye!

But when, without art,

Your kind thought you impart,

When your love runs in blushes through every vein, When it darts from your eyes, when it pants in your heart, Then I know you're a woman again.

There's a passion and pride

In our sex, she replied,

And this, might I gratify both, I would do:

Still an angel appear to each lover beside,

But still be a woman to you.

Thomas Parnell.