They spoil'd with Malice, e're they would depart, What e'er was rare of Nature or of Art:

Its greatest Trophies they destroy'd and burn'd; She that o'erturn'd the World, to Dust is turn'd.

Well might she fall, 'gainst whom such Foes conspire, Old Time, Revengeful Man, and Sword and Fire: Now all we see of the Great Empress Rome,

Are but the Sacred Reliques of her Tomb.

PHILIP AYRES.

LOVE STILL HAS SOMETHING OF THE SEA

LOVE still has something of the Sea,

From whence his Mother rose;

No time his Slaves from Doubt can free,
Nor give their Thoughts repose:

They are becalm'd in clearest Days,
And in rough Weather tost;

They wither under cold Delays

Or are in Tempests lost.

One while they seem to touch the Port,

Then straight into the Main,
Some angry Wind in cruel sport
The Vessel drives again.

At first Disdain and Pride they fear,
Which if they chance to 'scape,
Rivals and Falshood soon appear
In a more dreadful shape.

By such Degrees to Joy they come,
And are so long withstood,
So slowly they receive the Sum,
It hardly does them good.

"Tis cruel to prolong a Pain;
And to defer a Joy;
Believe me, gentle Celemene
Offends the winged Boy.

An hundred thousand Oaths your Fears
Perhaps would not remove;
And if I gaz'd a thousand Years

I could no deeper love.

SIR CHARLES SEDLEY.

ABSENT FROM THEE I LANGUISH
STILL

ABSENT from thee I languish still,
Then ask me not, when I return?
The straying Fool 'twill plainly kill,
To wish all Day, all Night to Mourn.

Dear; from thine Arms then let me flie,
That my Fantastick mind may prove,
The Torments it deserves to try,

That tears my fixd Heart from

my

When wearied with a world of Woe,

To thy safe Bosom I retire

Love.

Where Love and Peace and Truth does flow,

May I contented there expire.

Lest once more wandring from that Heav'n

I fall on some base heart unblest; Faithless to thee, False, unforgiv'n, And lose my Everlasting rest.

JOHN WILMOT, Earl of Rochester.

NANNETTE

I

HASTE my Nannette, my lovely maid,
Haste to the bower, thy swain has made.

II

For thee alone I made the bower,

And strew'd the couch with many a flower.

III

None but my Sheep shall near us come,
Venus be prais'd, my sheep are dumb.

IV

Great God of love, take thou my crook,
To keep the wolf from Nannette's flock.

Guard thou the sheep, to her so dear,
My own, alas! are less my care.

VI

But of the wolf, if thou'rt afraid,
Come not to us to call for aid.

VII

For with her swain my love shall stay,
Tho' the wolf strole, and the sheep stray.

MATTHEW PRIOR.

TO A CHILD OF QUALITY

LORDS, knights, and squires, the num'rous band,
That wear the fair miss Mary's fetters,
Were summon'd by her high command,
To show their passions by their letters.

My pen among the rest I took,

Lest those bright eyes that cannot read Shou'd dart their kindling fires, and look, The power they have to be obey'd.

Nor quality, nor reputation,

Forbid me yet my flame to tell,
Dear five years old befriends my passion,
And I may write till she can spell.

For while she makes her silk-worms beds,
With all the tender things I swear,
Whilst all the house my passion reads,
In papers round her baby's hair.

She may receive and own my flame,

For tho' the strictest prudes shou'd know it,

She'll pass for a most virtuous dame,

And I for an unhappy poet.

Then too alas! when she shall tear
The lines some younger rival sends,
She'll give me leave to write I fear,
And we shall still continue friends.

For, as our diff'rent ages move,

'Tis so ordain'd, wou'd Fate but mend it, That I shall be past making love

When she begins to comprehend it.

MATTHEW PRIOR.

THUS STEAL THE SILENT HOURS AWAY,
FROM INSCRIPTIONS ON DIALS

THUS steal the silent hours away,
The sun thus hastes to reach the sea,
And men to mingle with their clay.
Thus light and shade divide the year,
Thus, till the last great day appear,
And shut the starry theater.

ISAAC WATTS.

SONNET: I DIE WITH TOO
TRANSPORTING JOY

(From the French)

I DIE with too transporting Joy,
If she I love rewards my Fire;
If She's inexorably Coy,

With too much Passion I expire.

No Way the Fates afford to shun
The cruel Torment I endure;