And white, shall I say than my hand?
Nay, any lady's of the land.

It is a wondrous thing how fleet
"Twas on those little silver feet;
With what a pretty skipping grace
It oft would challenge me the race:
And when't had left me far away,
"Twould stay, and run again, and stay;
For it was nimbler much than hinds,
And trod as if on the four winds.
I have a garden of my own,
But so with roses overgrown,
And lilies, that you would it guess
To be a little wilderness,

And all the spring time of the year
It only loved to be there.
Among the beds of lilies I

Have sought it oft where it should lie,
Yet could not, till itself would rise,
Find it, although before mine eyes;
For in the flaxen lilies' shade
It like a bank of lilies laid;
Upon the roses it would feed
Until its lips e'en seem'd to bleed;
And then to me 'twould boldly trip,
And print those roses on my lip.
But all its chief delight was still
On roses thus itself to fill,
And its pure virgin limbs to fold
In whitest sheets of lilies cold.

Had it lived long, it would have been
Lilies without, roses within.

Clear thine aged father's brow From cold jealousy and fears.

Pretty, surely, 'twere to see

By young Love old Time beguiled; While our sportings are as free As the nurse's with the child.

Common beauties stay fifteen;

Such as yours should swifter move, Whose fair blossoms are too green Yet for lust, but not for love.

Love as much the snowy lamb, Or the wanton kid, does prize, As the lusty bull or ram,

For his morning sacrifice.

Now then love me: Time may take
Thee before thy time away:
Of this need we'll virtue make,
And learn love before we may

So we win of doubtful fate;

And if good to us she meant, We that good shall antedate; Or, if ill, that ill prevent.

Thus do kingdoms, frustrating
Other titles to their crown,
In the cradle crown their king,
So all foreign claims to drown.

So to make all rivals vain,

Now I crown thee with my love; Crown me with thy love again,

And we both shall monarchs prove.

CELIA SINGING.

ROSES in breathing forth their scent,
Or stars their borrow'd ornament:

Nymphs in their wat'ry sphere that move,

Or angels in their orbs above;
The winged chariot of the light,

Or the slow silent wheels of night;
The shade which from the swifter sun

Doth in a swifter motion run,

Or souls that their eternal rest do keep,
Make far less noise than Celia's breath in sleep.

But if the angel which inspires

This subtle flame with active fires,

Should mould this breath to words, and those Into a harmony dispose,

The music of this heavenly sphere

Would steal each soul (in) at the ear,

And into plants and stones infuse

A life that cherubim would chuse,

And with new powers invert the laws of fate,

Kill those that live, and dead things animate.

SPEAKING AND KISSING.

THE air which thy smooth voice doth break,
Into my soul like lightning flies;
My life retires while thou dost speak,
And thy soft breath its room supplies.
Lost in this pleasing ecstacy,

I join my trembling lips to thine,
And back receive that life from thee
Which I so gladly did resign.

Forbear, Platonic fools! t' inquire

What numbers do the soul compose;

No harmony can life inspire,

But that which from these accents flows.

LA BELLE CONFIDANTE.

You earthly souls that court a wanton flame
Whose pale, weak influence

Can rise no higher than the humble name
And narrow laws of sense,

Learn by our friendship to create

An immaterial fire,

Whose brightness angels may admire,
But cannot emulate.

Sickness may fright the roses from her cheek,
Or make the lilies fade,

But all the subtle ways that death doth seek Cannot my love invade.

[To tell all the stories that are told of this dissolute but witty nobleman, would be to collect what few would believe, what the good would refrain from reading, and " to fabricate furniture for the brothel." Pepys calls him an idle rogue; the excellent Evelyn, a very profane wit. He was both, and something more.

Of his sayings many are still on the tongue top, and told,

When the wine-cup shines in light;

while his poems are oftener read for the sake of their indecency than for their wit, though his satire was at all times lively, felicitous, and searching. His "Nothing" is, as Addison says, "an admirable poem on a barren subject." (Spec. No. 305.)

their expressions; but their freedom no more resembles the licentiousness of Rochester, than the nakedness of an Indian does that of a common prostitute." (Hist. of Eng. ch. lxxi.)

His poems were castrated by Stevens for Johnson's Collection; but this had been done before by Tonson, who while he did much, left very much to do. Could his satire be cleansed from its coarseness, a selection of his best pieces, many of which are still in manuscript, would be a desideratum, and the name of Wilmot would then stand high in the list of British satirists. But indecency is in the very nature of many of his subjects: there is more obscenity than wit in his verse, as was well observed by Walpole, more wit than poetry, more poetry than polite

ness.

Unwilling to tell one story of diverting or revolting profligacy upon another, Johnson has written the life of Lord Rochester in a few pages, said enough, and has indicated more than he has said. His Death has been given us by Bishop Burnet in one of the most readable books in the English language.]

But my jealous heart would break, Should we live one day asunder.

SONG.

Too late, alas! I must confess,

You need not arts to move me; Such charms by nature you possess, "Twere madness not to love ye.

Then spare a heart you may surprise,
And give my tongue the glory
To boast, though my unfaithful eyes
Betray a tender story.