I watch'd the dawn of every grace,
And gazed upon that angel face,

While yet 'twas safe to gaze;
And fondly bless'd each rising charm,
Nor thought such innocence could harm
The peace of future days.

But now despotic o'er the plains
The awful noon of beauty reigns,

And kneeling crowds adore;
These charms arise too fiercely bright,
Danger and death attend the sight,
And I must hope no more.

Thus to the rising God of day
Their early vows the Persians pay,

And bless the spreading fire;
Whose glowing chariot mounting soon
Pours on their heads the burning noon;
They sicken and expire.

THERE lives a lass upon the
Could I her picture draw,

A brighter nymph was never seen,
She looks and reigns a little queen,
And keeps the swains in awe.

green,

Her eyes are Cupid's darts and wings,
Her eyebrows are his bow,

Her silken hair the silver strings,
Which swift and sure destruction brings
To all the vale below.

If Pastorella's dawn of light

Can warm and wound us so,
Her noon must be so piercing bright,
Each glancing beam would kill outright,
And every swain subdue.

Hr

He that loves a rosy cheek,
Or a coral lip admires,
Or from star-like eyes doth seck
Fuel to maintain his fires;
As old Time makes these decay,
So his flames must waste away.

But a smooth and steadfast mind,

Gentle thoughts and calm desires,
Hearts with equal love combined

Kindle never-dying fires.
Where these are not, I despise
Lovely cheeks, or lips, or eyes.

CAREW.

Carew, though infected with the bad taste of his age, and in general overrun with artificial thoughts and conceits, has written some pieces of great sweetness and elegant simplicity of which this is a very pleasing example.

STILL to be neat, still to be drest,
As you were going to a feast;
Still to be powder'd, still perfumed,
Lady, it is to be presumed,
Tho' art's hid causes are not found,
All is not sweet, all is not sound.

Give me a look, give me a face
That makes simplicity a grace;
Robes loosely flowing, hair as free:
Such sweet neglect more taketh me

Than all th' adulteries of art;

They strike mine eyes, but not my heart. *

B. JONSON.

*This is one of a very few productions of the once celebrated author, which, by their singular elegance and neatness, form a striking contrast to the prevalent coarseness and quaintness of his tedious effusions.

WHY so pale and wan, fond lover?

Pr'ythee, why so pale?

Will, when looking well can't move her,

Looking ill prevail?

Pr'ythee, why so pale?

Why so dull and mute, young sinner?
Pr'ythee, why so mute?

Will, when speaking well can't win her,
Speaking nothing do 't?

Pr'ythee, why so mute?*

SUCKLING.

WHENCE comes my love? O heart! disclose:

'Twas from cheeks that shame the rose;

*The third stanza of this sprightly song is omitted, on account of its inferiority and coarseness.

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