Love is a burthen, which two hearts, I'm not of those who court their pain, My hope in love does ne'er expire, Nor yet of those who ill receiv'd, Wou'd have it otherwise believ'd; And, where their love could not prevail, Whoe'er wou'd make his victor less, He's still in torment, whom the rage In love indifference is sure The only sign of perfect cure. SONG. PHILLIS, men say that all my vows Alas, my heart he little knows Who thinks my love a trade. Were I, of all these woods, the lord, Than all my large command. My humble love has learnt to live, 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 Shew all thy skill to trim it up, Make it so large, that, fill'd with sack Engrave not battle on his cheek; I'm none of those that took Mæstrick, Let it no name of planets tell, For I am no Sir Sidrophel, Nor none of his relations. But carve thereon a spreading vine; Cupid and Bacchus my saints are, 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, CONSTANCY. I CANNOT change, as others do, Since the poor swain that sighs for you, No, Phillis, no, your heart to move 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, 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 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, 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, |