The black-bird and the thrush, That made the woods to ring, With all the reft, are now at hush, And not a note they fing. Sweet Philomel, the bird That hath the heavenly throat, Doth now, alas! not once afford Recording of a note. The flowers have had a froft, The herbs have loft their favour; And Phillida the fair hath loft For me her wonted favour. ̧ Thus all these careful fights And therefore, my sweet muse, That know'ft what help is best, Do now thy heavenly cunning use To fet my heart at rest. And in a dream bewray friend; What fate shall be my Whether my life shall still decay, Or when my forrows end. PH. FLETCHER. LOVE. Phineas. a notice of his purple is land an esteemed form, will be found. in the Retrospect. Review 12/341 LOVE's fooner felt than feen, his fubftance thinne Oft in a voice he creeps down thro' the ear, And if all fails, yet virtue's felf he'll hire. Himself's a dart, when nothing else can move : Who then the captive foul can well reprove, When love and virtue's felf become the darts of love. K I VERSES BY QUEEN ELIZABETH. GRIEVE, yet dare not fhew my difcontent, I love, and yet am forc'd to feem to hate; I do, yet dare not say I ever meant, I feem ftark mute, but inwardly do prate. I am, and not, I freeze, and yet am burn'd, My care is like my fhadow in the fun, Follows me flying, flies when I pursue it; Stands and lies by me, does what I have done; This too familiar care doth make me rue it. No means I find to rid him from my breast, Till by the end of things it be fuppreft. Some gentler paffions steal into my mind, Or let me live with fome more sweet content, Sign'd, "Finis, Eliza, Regina, upon Mount Zeurs departure, Afomol. Muf. MSS. 6969 (781.) p. 142. ANONYMOUS. THE STURDY ROCK. FROM PERCY'S COLLECTION. THE sturdy rock, for all his strength, The ftately ftag, that seems so ftout, At length is caught in fowler's net : Yea, man himself, unto whose will Doth fade at length, and fall away. There is nothing but time doth waste, The heav'ns, the earth, confume at last. But virtue fits triumphing still Upon the throne of glorious fame; Though spiteful death man's body kill, Yet hurts he not his virtuous name. By life or death whate'er betides, The state of virtue never slides. THE PRAISE OF AMARGANA. THE fun, the feafon, in each thing The paths where Amargana treads The groves put on their rich array, With hawthorn-blooms embroider'd gay, And fweet-perfumed with eglantine, To glad our lovely fummer queen. The filent river stays his course, To glad our lovely fummer queen. |