Yet I have often seen thee bring

Thy beams o'er yon bare mountain's steep; Then, with a smile, their lustre fling Full on the dark and roaring deep; When the pilgrim's heart did fail, And when near lost the tossing sail.

Sure, that passing blush deceives;

For thou, fair nymph, art chaste and cold! Love our bosoms seldom leaves;

But thou art of a different mould. Hail, chaste queen! for ever hail! And, prithee, look not quite so pale!

Yet stay-perhaps thou'st travell'd far,
Exulting in thy conscious light;

Till, as I fear, some youthful Star

Hath spread his charms before thy sight;

And, when he found his arts prevail,

He left thee, sickening, faint, and pale.

IF

BY COWLEY.

mine eyes do e'er declare

They've seen a second thing that's fair,
Or ears, that they have music found

Besides thy voice in any sound;
If my taste do ever meet

After thy kiss with aught that's sweet :
If my abused touch allow

Ought to be smooth or soft but you;
If what seasonable springs,

Or the eastern summer brings,

Do my smell persuade at all

Ought perfume but thy breath to call; May I as worthless seem to thee,

As all but thou appear to me.

If I ever anger know,

Till some wrong be done to you;
If ever I an hope admit,

Without thy image stamp'd on it;
Or any fear till I begin

To find that you're concern'd therein;

If a joy e'er come to me,

That tastes of any thing but thee;
If any sorrow touch my mind
Whilst you are well and not unkind;
If I a minute's space debate,

Whether I shall curse and hate

The things beneath thy hatred fall,

Though all the world, myself and all; If any passion of my heart,

By any force or any art,

Be brought to move one step from thee, May'st thou no passion have for me.

THE

INCONSTANT.

BY THE SAME.

I

NEVER yet could see that face
Which had no dart for me;

From fifteen years to fifty's space
They all victorious be.

Colour or shape, good limbs, or face,
Goodness, or wit, in all I find:

In motion or in speech a grace;
If all fail, yet 'tis womankind.

If tall, the name of proper slays;
If fair, she's pleasant as the light;
If low, her prettiness does please;

If black, what lover loves not night?

The fat like plenty fills my heart,

The lean with love makes me too so;
If straight, her body's Cupid's dart
To me; if crooked, 'tis his bow.

Thus with unwearied wings I flee

Through all Love's gardens and his fields; And, like the wise industrious bee,

No weed but honey to me yields.

ICE AND FIRE.

BY SIR EDWARD SHERBURNE.

NAKED Love did to thine eye,

Chloris, once, to warm him, fly:
But its subtle flame and light

Scorch'd his wings, and spoil'd his sight.

Forced from thence, he went to rest

In the soft couch of thy breast:

But there met a frost so great

As his torch extinguish'd straight.

When poor Cupid thus (constrain'd His cold bed to leave) complain'd, "Alas! what lodging's here for me, "If all ice and fire she be?"