EXTRACT

FROM A CHORUS IN JULIUS CAESAR.

THIS life of ours is like a rofe,

Which, whilft it beauties rare array, Doth then enjoy the leaft repofe; When, virgin-like, it blush we fee,

hand the prey,

And by each wind is blown away;
Yea, though from violence 'scaped free,
Yet doth it languish and decay.

So, whilft the courage hottest boils,
And that our life feems best to be,
It is with danger compaft ftill,

Of which, though none it chance to kill,
As nature fails the body falls.

Since, as a fhip amidst the deep,

Or as an eagle through the air,
Which of their way no impreffion keep,
Moft swift, when seeming least to move,
This breath, of which we take fuch care,
Doth tofs the body every where,

That it may hence with hafte remove-
Life flips and fleeps always away,

Then whence, and as it came, goes bare,
Whose steps behind no trace do leave.—

Why should heav'n-banish'd fouls thus love
The cause and bounds of their exile,
Where they as restless strangers ftray?

And with fuch pain why should they reave That which they have no right to have, Which, with themselves, within short while, As fummer's beauties, must decay,

And can give nought except the grave?

SONG

FROM THE AURORA.

O WOULD to God a way were found,
That by fome fecret fympathy unknown,
My fair my fancy's depth might found,
And know my state as clearly as her own!
Then bleft, moft bleft were I,
No doubt, beneath the sky,
I were the happiest wight;

For if my state they knew,
It ruthless rocks would rue,

And mend me if they might.

The deepest rivers make least din,

The filent foul doth moft abound in care,

Then might my breast be read within,

A thousand volumes would be written there.

Might filence fhew my mind,
Sighs tell how I were pin'd;

Or looks my woes relate,
Then any pregnant wit,

That well remarked it,

Would foon difcern

my

ftate.

Oft those that do deserve difdain,

For forging fancies get the best reward;
When I, who feel what they do feign,
For too much love am had in no regard.
Behold, by proof we see,

The gallant living free,

His fancies doth extend;

Where he that is o'ercome,
Rein'd with refpects, stands dumb,
Still fearing to offend.

Then fince in vain I plaints impart

To fcornful ears, in a contemned scroll, And fince my tongue betrays my heart, And cannot tell the anguish of my foul, Henceforth I'll hide my loffes,

And not recount the croffes

That do my joys o'erthrow ;
At least, to fenfeless things,

Mounts, vales, woods, floods, and springs,
I fhall them only show.

Ah! unaffected lines,

True models of my heart;

The world may fee that in you shines The power of paffion, more than art.

WILLIAM BURTON.

THE ABSTRACT OF MELANCHOLY,

PREFIXED TO THE ANATOMY OF MELANCHOLY.

WHEN I go mufing all alone,

Thinking of divers things foreknown,
When I build caftles in the air,
Void of forrow, and void of care,
Pleafing myself with phantasms sweet,
Methinks the time runs very fleet;
All my joys to this are folly,
Nought so sweet as melancholy.

When I go walking, all alone,
Recounting what I have ill done,
My thoughts on me then tyrannize,
Fear and forrow me surprise;
Whether I tarry ftill, or go,
Methinks the time moves very flow.
All my griefs to this are jolly,
Nought fo fad as melancholy.

When to myself I act, and fmile,
With pleafing thoughts the time beguile;
By a brook-fide, or wood fo green,
Unheard, unfought for, and unfeen,