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Love is a burthen, which two hearts,
When equally they bear their parts,
With pleasure carry; but no one,
Alas, can bear it long alone.

I'm not of those who court their pain,
And make an idol of disdain;

My hope in love does ne'er expire,
But it extinguishes desire.

Nor yet

of those who ill receiv'd,

Wou'd have it otherwise believ'd;

And, where their love could not prevail,
Take the vain liberty to rail.

Whoe'er wou'd make his victor less,
Must his own weak defence confess,
And while her power he does defame,
He poorly doubles his own shame.
Even that malice does betray,
And speak concern another way;
And all such scorn in men is but
The smoke of fires ill put out.

He's still in torment, whom the rage
To detraction does engage;

In love indifference is sure

The only sign of perfect cure.

SONG.

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 learnt to live,
On what the nicest maid,
Without a conscious blush, may give
Beneath the mirtle-shade.

JOHN WILMOT, Earl of Rochester, was born at Ditchley, near Woodstock, in Oxfordshire, on the 10th April, 1647. He inherited from his father little except the title, and such claims as were grounded upon his unshaken adherence to the unhappy fortunes of Charles the First. In 1659, when only twelve years old, he was entered at Wadham College, Oxford, having, even at that early age, afforded proofs of the vivacity of his wit and the vigour of his understanding. Two years afterwards he was, with several other young noblemen, made a master of arts by Lord Clarendon, then Chancellor of the University, and at once set out on his travels through France and Italy. In his eighteenth year he returned to England, possessing all the advantages that high rank, cultivated taste, refined manners, and a graceful person could bestow. Such recommendations were certain to make their way in that age of externals. The young Earl speedily rose in favour with Charles the Second; and his early predisposition for gaiety and intemperance was encouraged by the dissipated associates of a court, where wit occupied the places of all the virtues. We find, however, that Rochester did not continue long in this inglorious ease. His active and energetic mind wearied of repose; and, in the years 1665 and 1666, he established a reputation for courage and intrepidity in the sea service of his country. On his reappearance in London, he abandoned himself to an uninterrupted career of unredeemed debauchery; surpassing all the satellites of a dissolute court in grossness of conduct, insomuch that, as he himself declared to Bishop Burnet, "for five years together he was continually either drunk, or so much inflamed by inebriety, as at no interval to be master of himself." While in this state, he openly outraged all the laws of decency, playing the most extravagant pranks, engaging in the lowest amours, and avowing contempt for every moral and religious principle or obligation. Thus passed his life,-a continued course of dissipation and sensuality, "with intervals of study perhaps yet more criminal," until nature exacted the penalty of premature decay. He died on the 26th of July, 1680, having previously made some atonement to society by the declaration of a total change in his opinions, publicity to which was given by Bishop Burnet, in a little work printed after the death of the wretched subject of it. It has passed through many editions, and is recommended by Dr. Johnson as one "which the critic ought to read for its elegance, the philosopher for its arguments, and the saint for its piety." The poems of Rochester are, for the most part, in keeping with his life,-gay, easy, and graceful, the produce of moments of excitement, but rarely of reflection or matured thought. They are such as give us glimpses of the natural vigour of his mind and the fertility of his imagination, and make us the more lament that his talents should have been enlisted on the side of vice. Few men might with greater certainty have calculated on "atchieving greatness;" but as his life was, to say the least, useless, so the productions of his pen are of small value, even if we put aside those that are, in the strongest sense, deleterious. The first edition of his poetry was issued as if shame attached to its publicity. It professed to have been printed at Antwerp, and doubtless contained many pieces of which he was not the author. Those that are known to be his relate chiefly to the common-place topics of artificial courtship, and are altogether without sentiment. They consist, for the most part, of a few lines, "such as one fit of resolution would produce."

Rochester presents to us a striking example of the wretchedness which dissipation never fails to bring. Good men loathed him, and he was despised even by his brother wits who trod in the same perilous path to notoriety. The character he had obtained for courage, he afterwards lost by meanly skulking out of broils,

"Pushing into a midnight fray

His brave companions, and then run away :"

and his bitter satire against one of them is scarcely a sufficient set-off to the biting couplet that was written in reply:

"Thou canst hurt no man's fame with thy ill word,

Thy pen is full as harmless as thy sword."

The life of Rochester, however, " points a moral,"-exhibits large talents rendered useless, or, rather, prejudicial, by dissipation,-and shows how baneful they may be rendered by vice, both to the possessor and to society.

UPON DRINKING IN A BOWL.

VULCAN, contrive me such a cup
As Nestor us'd of old;

Shew all thy skill to trim it up,
Damask it round with gold.

Make it so large, that, fill'd with sack
Up to the swelling brim,
Vast toasts on the delicious lake,
Like ships at sea, may swim.

Engrave not battle on his cheek;
With war I've nought to do;

I'm none of those that took Mæstrick,
Nor Yarmouth leaguer knew.

Let it no name of planets tell,
Fix'd stars, or constellations:

For I am no Sir Sidrophel,

Nor none of his relations.

But carve thereon a spreading vine;
Then add two lovely boys;
Their limbs in amorous folds entwine,
The type of future joys.

Cupid and Bacchus my saints are,
May drink and love still reign!
With wine I wash away my cares,
And then to love again.

A SONG.

My dear mistress has a heart

Soft as those kind looks she gave me,

When, with love's resistless art,

And her eyes, she did enslave me.

But her constancy's so weak,

She's so wild and apt to wander, That my jealous heart would break, Should we live one day asunder.

Melting joys about her move,

Killing pleasures, wounding blisses : She can dress her eyes in love,

And her lips can warm with kisses. Angels listen when she speaks,

She's my delight, all mankind's wonder;

But my jealous heart would break,
Should we live one day asunder.

CONSTANCY.

I CANNOT change, as others do,
Though you unjustly scorn;

Since the poor swain that sighs for you,
For you alone was born.

No, Phillis, no, your heart to move
A surer way I'll try;

And, to revenge my slighted love,

Will still love on, will still love on and die. When, kill'd with grief, Amyntas lies, And you to mind shall call

The sighs that now unpity'd rise,

The tears that vainly fall:

That welcome hour that ends this smart,
Will then begin your pain;

For such a faithful tender heart

Can never break, can never break in vain.

LOVE AND LIFE.

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 can it then be mine? The present moment's all my And that, as fast as it is got, Phillis, is only thine.

lot;

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.

A SONG.

Too late, alas! I must confess

You need not arts to move me; Such charms by nature you possess 'Twere madness not to love ye.

Then spare a heart you may surprise,
And give my tongue the glory
To boast, though my unfaithful eyes
Betray a tender story.

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