TO CARNATIONS.
STAY while ye will, or go,
And leave no scent behind ye:
Yet trust me, I shall know
The place where I may find ye.
Within my Lucia's cheek,
(Whose livery ye wear)
Play ye at hide or seek,
I'm sure to find ye there.
THE PRESENT MOMENT.
ALL my past life is mine no more,
The flying hours are gone;
Like transitory dreams given o'er,
Whose images are kept in store
By memory alone.
The time that is to come, is not;
How, then, can it be mine?
The present moment's all my lot,
And that, as fast as it is got,
Phillis, is only thine.
Then talk not of inconstancy,
False hearts, and broken vows;
If I, by miracle, can be
This live-long minute true to thee,
'Tis all that heaven allows!
John Wilmot, Earl of Rochester.
THE VICTOR AND THE VANQUISHED.
WHILE on those lovely looks I gaze,
And see a wretch pursuing,
In raptures of a bless'd amaze,
His pleasing, happy ruin;
'Tis not for pity that I move;→
His fate is too aspiring,
Whose heart, broke with a load of love,
Dies, wishing and admiring.
But if this murder you'd forego,
Your slave from death removing;
Let me your art of charming know,
Or learn you mine of loving.
But, whether life or death betide,
In love 'tis equal measure;
The victor lives with empty pride,
The vanquish'd dies with pleasure.
John Wilmot, Earl of Rochester.
PHILLIS, men say that all my vows
Are to thy fortune paid;
Alas! my heart he little knows,
Who thinks my love a trade.
Were I of all these woods the lord,
One berry from thy hand
More real pleasure would afford
Than all my large command.
My humble love has learn'd to live
On what the nicest maid,
Without a conscious blush, may give
Beneath the myrtle shade.
'Tis not your saying that you love
Can ease me of my smart ;
Your actions must your words approve,
Or else you break my heart.
In vain you bid my passions cease,
And ease my troubled breast;
Your love alone must give me peace-
Restore my wonted rest.
But if I fail your heart to move,
Or 'tis not yours to give,
I cannot, will not cease to love,
But I will cease to live.
AH, Chloris! could I now but sit
As unconcern'd as when
Your infant beauty could beget
No happiness or pain!
When I this dawning did admire,
And praised the coming day,
I little thought the rising fire
Would take my rest away.
Your charms in harmless childhood lay
Like metals in a mine;
Age from no face takes more away
Than youth conceal'd in thine.
But as your charms insensibly
To their perfection prest,
So love as unperceived did fly,
And center'd in my breast.
My passion with your beauty grew,
While Cupid at my heart,
Still as his mother favour'd you,
Threw a new flaming dart.
Each gloried in their wanton part;
To make a lover, he
Employ'd the utmost of his art —
To make a beauty, she.
YE happy swains, whose hearts are free.
From Love's imperial chain,
Take warning, and be taught by me,
T'avoid th' enchanting pain.
Fatal the wolves to trembling flocks-
Fierce winds to blossoms prove-
To careless seamen, hidden rocks-
To human quiet, love.
Then fly the Fair, if bliss you prize;
The snake's beneath the flower:
Who ever gazed on beauteous eyes,
And tasted quiet more?
How faithless is the lover's joy!
How constant is his care!
The kind with falsehood do destroy,
The cruel with despair.
NOT, Celia, that I juster am
Or better than the rest;
For I would change each hour, like them,
Were not my heart at rest.
But I am tied to very thee
By every thought I have:
Thy face I only care to see,
Thy heart I only crave.
All that in woman is adored
In thy dear self I find-
For the whole sex can but afford
The handsome and the kind.
Why then should I seek further store,
And still make love anew?
When change itself can give no more,
'Tis easy to be true.
IT is not, Celia, in your power
To say how long our love will last;
may be we, within this hour,
May lose those joys we now do taste:
The blessed, who immortal be,
From change of love are only free.
Then, since we mortal lovers are,
Ask not how long our love will last;
But, while it does, let us take care
Each minute be with pleasure past.
Were it not madness to deny
To live, because we're sure to die?
Fear not, though love and beauty fail,
My reason shall my heart direct:
Your kindness now shall then prevail,
And passion turn into respect.
Celia, at worst, you'll in the end
But change a lover for a friend.
Sir George Etherege.
OF ENGLISH VERSE.
POETS may boast, as safely vain,
Their works shall with the world remain ;
Both bound together, live or die,
The verses and the prophecy.
But who can hope his line should long
Last in a daily changing tongue?
While they are new, envy prevails;
And, as that dies, our language fails.
When architects have done their part,
The matter may betray their art:
Time, if we use ill-chosen stone,
Soon brings a well-built palace down.
Poets, that lasting marble seek,
Must carve in Latin or'in Greek:
We write in sand: our language grows,
And, like the tide, our work o'erflows.
Chaucer his sense can only boast,—
The glory of his numbers lost!
Years have defaced his matchless strain,-
And yet he did not sing in vain !
The beauties which adorn'd that age,
The shining subjects of his page,
Hoping they should immortal prove,
Rewarded with success his love.
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