Thy garments flowing loose, and in each hand
A wanton lover, who by turns caress'd thee
With all the freedom of unbounded pleasure:
I snatch'd my sword, and in the very moment
Darted at the phantom, straight it left me;
Then rose and call'd for lights, when, O dire omen!
I found my weapon had the arras pierced,
Just where that famous tale was interwoven,
How the unhappy Theban slew his father.

Mon. And for this cause my virtue is suspected!
Because in dreams your fancy has been ridden,
I must be tortured waking!
Cham.

Have a care.
Labour not to be justified too fast :
Hear all, and then let justice hold the scale.
What follow'd was the riddle that confounds me :
Through a close lane, as I pursued my journey,
And meditated on the last night's vision,

I spied a wrinkled hag, with age grown double,
Picking dry sticks, and mumbling to herself;
Her eyes with scalding rheum were gall'd and red;
Cold palsy shook her head, her hands seem'd with-
And on her crook'd shoulders had she wrapt [er'd,
The tatter'd remnant of an old striped hanging,
Which served to keep her carcass from the cold;
So there was nothing of a piece about her;
Her lower weeds were all o'er coarsely patch'd
With diff'rent colour'd rags, black, red, white, yel-
And seem'd to speak variety of wretchedness. [low,
I asked her of my way, which she inform'd me ;
Then craved my charity, and bade me hasten
To save a sister: at that word I started.

Mon. The common cheat of beggars every day!
They flock about our doors, pretend to gifts
Of prophecy, and telling fools their fortunes.

Cham. Oh! but she told me such a tale, MoniAs in it bore great circumstance of truth; [mia, Castalio and Polydore, my sister.

Mon.

Hah!

Mon. Still will you cross the line of my discourse! Yes, I confess that he has won my soul By generous love, and honourable vows; Which he this day appointed to complete, And make himself by holy marriage mine.

Cham. Art thou then spotless? hast thou still preThy virtue white without a blot untainted? [served Mon. When I'm unchaste, may Heaven reject my prayers!

Or more, to make me wretched, may you know it! Cham. Oh then, Monimia, art thou dearer to me

Mon. Oh, shouldst thou know the cause of my lamenting,

I'm satisfied, Chamont, that thou wouldst scorn me;
Thou wouldst despise the abject lost Monimia,
No more wouldst praise this hated beauty; but
When in some cell distracted, as I shall be,
Thou seest me lie; these unregarded locks
Matted like furies' tresses; my poor limbs
Chain'd to the ground, and 'stead of the delights
Which happy lovers taste, my keeper's stripes,
A bed of straw, and a coarse wooden dish
Of wretched sustenance; when thus thou seest me,
Pr'ythee, have charity and pity for me.
Let me enjoy this thought.

Cham.
Why wilt thou rack
My soul so long, Monimia? ease me quickly;
Or thou wilt run me into madness first.
Mon. Could you be secret?
Cham.

Secret as the grave.

Mon. But when I've told you, will you keep your fury

Within its bounds? Will you not do some rash
And horrid mischief? for indeed, Chamont,
You would not think how hardly I've been used
From a near friend from one that has my soul
A slave, and therefore treats it like a tyrant.

Cham. Yes, a villain.

Acas.

[house

Have a care, young soldier, How thou'rt too busy with Acasto's fame ;

I have a sword, my arm's good old acquaintance. Villain to thee

Cham. Curse on thy scandalous age, Which hinders me to rush upon thy throat, And tear the root up of that cursed bramble !

Acas. Ungrateful ruffian! sure my good old friend Was ne'er thy father; nothing of him's in thee: What have I done in my unhappy age,

To be thus used? I scorn to upbraid thee, boy,
But I could put thee in remembrance-
Cham.

Do.

Acas. I scorn itCham. No, I'll calmly hear the story, For I would fain know all, to see which scale Weighs most-Hah, is not that good old Acasto? What have I done? Can you forgive this folly ? Acas. Why dost thou ask it?

Cham. Of too much passion; pray, my lord, forgive me. [Kneels.

'Twas the rude o'erflowing

Acas. Mock me not, youth; I can revenge a wrong.

Cham. I know it well; but for this thought of Pity a madman's frenzy, and forget it. [mine, Acas. I will; but henceforth, pr'ythee be more kind. [Raises him.

Whence came the cause?

Cham. Indeed I've been to blame, But I'll learn better; for you've been my father: You've been her father too

[Takes MONIMIA by the hand.

Acas. Forbear the prologue-
And let me know the substance of thy tale.

Cham. You took her up a little tender flower, Just sprouted on a bank, which the next frost Had nipp'd ; and, with a careful loving hand,

Transplanted her into your own fair garden, Where the sun always shines: There long she flourish'd,

Grew sweet to sense, and lovely to the eye,
Till at the last a cruel spoiler came,
Cropp'd this fair rose, and rifled all its sweetness,
Then cast it like a loathsome weed away.

Acas. You talk to me in parables; Chamont,
You may have known that I'm no wordy man ;
Fine speeches are the instruments of knaves
Or fools, that use them, when they want good sense;
But honesty

Needs no disguise nor ornament; be plain.
Cham. Your son-

Pri. WHY, cruel Heaven, have my unhappy days Been lengthen❜d to this sad one? Oh! dishonour And deathless infamy are fallen upon me. Was it my fault? Am I a traitor? No. But then, my only child, my daughter, wedded; There my best blood runs foul, and a disease Incurable has seized upon my memory, To make it rot, and stink to after ages. Cursed be the fatal minute when I got her, Or would that I'd been anything but man, And raised an issue which would ne'er have wrong'd The miserable creatures, man excepted, Are not the less esteem'd, though their posterity Degenerate from the virtues of their fathers; The vilest beasts are happy in their offsprings, While only man gets traitors, whores, and villains. Cursed be the names, and some swift blow from fate Lay his head deep, where mine may be forgotten.

[me.

Enter BELVIDERA, in a long mourning veil. Bel. He's there, my father, my inhuman father, That for three years has left an only child Exposed to all the outrages of fate, And cruel ruin-oh!— Pri.

What child of sorrow Art thou that com'st thus wrapp'd in weeds of sadness,

And movest as if thy steps were towards a grave ! Bel. A wretch, who from the very top of happi

ness

BEAUTY and Love fell once at odds,
And thus reviled each other:
Quoth Love, I am one of the gods,
And thou wait'st on my mother;
Thou hadst no power on man at all
But what I gave to thee;
Nor are you longer sweet, or fair,
Than men acknowledge me.

Away, fond boy, then Beauty cried,
We know that thou art blind;
And men of nobler parts they can
Our graces better find:

'Twas I begot the mortal snow,
And kindled men's desires;
I made thy quiver and thy bow,
And wings to fan thy fires.

Cupid in anger flung away,

And thus to Vulcan pray'd,

That he would tip his shafts with scorn,

To punish his proud maid.

So ever since Beauty has been

But courted for an hour;

To love a day is held a sin

'Gainst Cupid and his power.

SEAMAN'S SONG.

FROM THE SAME.

O'ER the rolling waves we go, Where the stormy winds do blow, To quell with fire and sword the foe That dares give us vexation. Sailing to each foreign shore, Despising hardships we endure, Wealth we often do bring o'er,

That does enrich the nation.

* These extracts from the Loyal Garland have been placed among the Specimens according to the date of the edition. Most of the poetry in that miscellany is of a much older date.

Noble-hearted seamen are,
Those that do no labour spare,
Nor no danger shun or fear

To do their country pleasure.
In loyalty they do abound,
Nothing base in them is found;
But they bravely stand their ground
In calm and stormy weather.

In their love and constancy None above them e'er can be: As the maidens daily see,

Who are by seamen courted: Nothing for them is too good That is found in land or flood; Nor with better flesh and blood Has any ever sported.

SONG. TYRANNIC LOVE+.

FROM THE SAME.

LOVE in fantastic triumph sat,
While bleeding hearts around him flow'd,
For whom fresh pains he did create,
And strange tyrannic power he show'd:
From thy bright eyes he took his fires,
Which round about in sport he hurl'd;
But 'twas from mine he took desires,
Enough 't undo the amorous world.

From me he took his sighs and tears,
From thee his pride and cruelty;
From me his languishment and fears,
And every killing dart from thee:
Thus thou, and I, the god have arm'd,
And set him up a deity:

But my poor heart alone is harm'd,
Whilst thine the victor is and free.

[t This song is by Aphra Behn, the Astrea of Pope"The stage how loosely does Astræa tread," and is in "Abdelazer, or The Moor's Revenge."]

WHY, little charmer of the air,
Dost thou in music spend the morn,
While I thus languish in despair,
Oppress'd by Cynthia's hate and scorn?
Why dost thou sing and hear me cry?
Tell, wanton songster, tell me why.

Great to the ear, though small to sight,
The happy lover's dear delight;
Fly to the bowers where such are laid,
And there bestow thy serenade:
Haste thee from sorrow, haste away,
Alas, there's danger in thy stay,
Lest hearing me so oft complain
Should make thee change thy cheerful
strain.

Then cease, thou charmer of the air,
No more in music spend the morn
With me that languish in despair,
Oppress'd by Cynthia's hate and scorn;
And do not this poor boon deny,
I ask but silence while I die.

ON THE SIGHT OF HIS MISTRESS'S HOUSE. FROM THE SAME.

To view these walls each night I come alone,
And pay my adoration to the stone;
Whence joy and peace are influenced on me,
For 'tis the temple of my deity.

As nights and days an anxious wretch by stealth Creeps out to view the place which hoards his wealth,

So to this house, that keeps from me my heart, I come, look, traverse, weep, and then depart*.

[* N. Hook and Philip Ayres are writers very little known, and scarcely meriting a place in these Selections. In no collection of our poets (and our so called "British Poets" have been made general and mediocre enough), have they ever found a place, in no Biographical Dictionary are their names included, and without Mr. Campbell's resurrection of them they must have slept with "Time and with Tom Hearne." A reader may be allowed to smile at Mr. Campbell's very general love for poetry in its essence, and his endeavours to recover and embalm decayed bodies, at his taste, and his general good-nature. Mr. Campbell's criticisms are everywhere distinguished by a discerning and cultivated mind, his selections at times by a kindness for the dead, and an anxiety to give what Mr. Ellis had not given.]