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I fly from pomp, I fly from plate,

I fly from falsehood's specious grin; Freedom I love, and form I hate,

And choose my lodgings at an Inn. Here, waiter! take my sordid ore,

Which lacqueys else might hope to win; It buys what Courts have not in store,

It buys me Freedom, at an Inn. And now once more I shape my way

Through rain or shine, through thick or thin, Secure to meet, at close of day,

With kind reception at an Inn. Whoe'er has travell’d life's dull round,

Where'er his stages may have been, May sigh to think how oft he found The warmest welcome-at an Inn.

William Shenstone.

CLVIII.

As t'other day o'er the green meadow I pass’d,
A swain overtook me, and held my hand fast;
Then cried, my dear Lucy, thou cause of my care,
How long must thy faithful young Thyrsis despair?
To grant my petition, no longer be shy;
But frowning, I answer'd, “O; fie, shepherd, fie.”
He told me his fondness like time should endure,
That beauty which kindled his flame 'twould secure;
That all my sweet charms were for homage design'd,
And youth was the season to love and be kind :
Lord, what could I say? I could hardly deny,
And faintly I uttered, “0, fie, shepherd, fie.”
He swore—with a kiss, that he could not refrain,
I told him 'twas rude, - but he kiss'd me again;
My conduct, ye fair ones, in question ne'er

call,
Nor think I did wrong, - I did nothing at all!
Resolved to resist, yet inclined to comply,
I leave it for you to say, “Fie, shepherd, fie.”

Unknown.

CLIX.

YOUNG Colin protests I'm his joy and delight ;
He's ever unhappy when I'm from his sight:
He wants to be with me wherever I go ;
The deuce sure is in him for plaguing me so.

His pleasure all day is to sit by my side ;
He pipes and he sings, though I frown and I chide;
I bid him depart : but he smiling, says No."
The deuce sure is in him for plaguing me so.

He often requests me his flame to relieve;
I ask him what favour he hopes to receive :
His answer's a sigh, while in blushes I glow;
What mortal, beside him, would plague a maid so?

This breast-knot he yesterday brought from the wake,
And softly entreated I'd wear't for his sake,
Such trifles are easy enough to bestow :
I sure deserve more for his plaguing me so!
He hands me each eve from the cot to the plain,
And meets me each morn to conduct me again ;
But what's his intention I wish I could know,
For I'd rather be married than plagued by him so.

Unknown.

CLX.

Were I a king, I could command content ;
Were I obscure, hidden should be my cares ;
Or were I dead, no cares should me torment,
Nor hopes, nor hates, nor loves, nor griefs, nor fears.
A doubtful choice,—of these three which to crave,
A kingdom, or a cottage, or a grave.

Edward Vere, Earl of Oxford.

CLXI.

THE REMEDY WORSE THAN THE DISEASE,

I SENT for Ratcliffe ; was so ill,

That other doctors gave me over :
He felt my pulse, prescribed his pill,

And I was likely to recover.
But when the wit began to wheeze,

And wine had warm’d the politician,
Cured yesterday of my disease,
I died last night of my physician.

Matthew Prior.

CLXII.

UNDERNEATH this sable hearse
Lies the subject of all verse,
Sydney's sister-Pembroke's mother-
Death, ere thou hast slain another,
Fair and wise and good as she,
Time shall throw his dart at thee.

Ben Jonson.

CLXIII.

TO LAURELS.

A FUNERAL stone,

Or verse, I covet none;
But only crave
Of you that I may have
A sacred laurel springing from my grave,

Which being seen
Blest with perpetual green,

May grow to be

Not so much call'd a tree,
As the eternal monument of me.

Robert Herrick.

CLXIV.

UPON A LADY THAT DIED IN CHILD-BED,

AND LEFT A DAUGHTER BEHIND HER.

As gilly-flowers do but stay
To blow, and seed, and so away,
So you, sweet lady, sweet as May,
The garden's glory, lived awhile,
To lend the world your scent and smile :
But when your own fair print was set
Once in a virgin flosculet,
Sweet as yourself, and newly blown,
To give that life, resign'd your own ;
But so, as still the mother's power
Lives in the pretty lady-flower.

Robert Herrick.

CLXV.

UPON THE DEATH OF SIR A. MORTON'S

WIFE.

He first deceased ; she, for a little, tried
To live without him, liked it not, and died.

Sir Henry Wotton.

CLXVI.

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FOR MY OWN MONUMENT. As doctors give physic by way of prevention,

Mat, alive and in health, of his tombstone took care;
For delays are unsafe, and his pious intention

May haply be never fulfill'd by his heir.
Then take Mat's word for it, the sculptor is paid;

That the figure is fine, pray believe your own eye ;
Yet credit but lightly what more may be said,

For we flatter ourselves, and teach marble to lie.
Yet counting as far as to fifty his years,

His virtues and vices were as other men's are ;
High hopes he conceived, and he smother'd great fears,

In a life party-colour’d, half pleasure, half care.

Nor to business a drudge, nor to faction a slave,

He strove to make interest and freedom agree ; in public employments industrious and grave,

And alone with his friends, Lord ! how merry was he. Now in equipage stately, now humbly on foot,

Both fortunes he tried, but to neither would trust; And whirl'd in the round as the wheel turn'd about,

He found riches had wings, and knew man was but dust This verse, little polish'd, tho' mighty sincere,

Sets neither his titles nor merit to view; It says that his relics collected lie here,

And no mortal yet knows too if this may be true. Fierce robbers there are that infest the highway,

So Mat may be kill'd, and his bones never found ; False witness at court, and fierce tempests

So Mat may yet chance to be hang'd or be drown'd.
If his bones lie in earth, roll in sea, fly in air,

To Fate we must yield, and the thing is the same;
And if passing thou giv'st him a smile or a tear,
He cares not-yet, prithee, be kind to his fame.

Matthew Prior.

at sea,

CLXVII.

EPIGRAM.

Had Cain been Scot, God would have changed his doom, Not forced him wander, but confined him home.

John Cleveland.

CLXVIII.

EPITAPH FOR ONE WHO WOULD NOT BE

BURIED IN WESTMINSTER ABBE Y.

HEROES and kings ! your distance keep,
In peace let one poor poet sleep,
Who never flatter'd folks like you :
Let Horace blush, and Virgil too.

Alexander Pope.

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