Curse on thy scandalous age, Which hinders me to rush upon thy throat, And tear the root up of that cursed bramble!

Acas. Ungrateful ruffian! sure my good old friend Was ne'er thy father; nothing of him's in thee: What have I done in my unhappy age,

Do.

To be thus used? I scorn to upbraid thee, boy,
But I could put thee in remembrance—
Cham.
Acas. I scorn it-
Cham.
No, I'll calmly hear the story,
For I would fain know all, to see which scale
Weighs most-Hah, is not that good old Acasto?
What have I done? Can you forgive this folly?
Acas. Why dost thou ask it?

Cham. 'Twas the rude o'erflowing Of too much passion; pray, my lord, forgive me. [Kneels.

Acas. Mock me not, youth; I can revenge a

wrong.

Cham. I know it well; but for this thought of Pity a madman's frenzy, and forget it. [mine, Acas. I will; but henceforth, pr'ythee be more kind. [Raises him.

Whence came the cause?

Cham. Indeed I've been to blame, But I'll learn better; for you've been my father: You've been her father too

[Takes MONIMIA by the hand.

Acas. Forbear the prologue-
And let me know the substance of thy tale.

Cham. You took her up a little tender flower, Just sprouted on a bank, which the next frost Had nipp'd; and, with a careful loving hand,

Transplanted her into your own fair garden, Where the sun always shines: There long she flourish'd,

Grew sweet to sense, and lovely to the eye,
Till at the last a cruel spoiler came,
Cropp'd this fair rose, and rifled all its sweetness,
Then cast it like a loathsome weed away.

Acas. You talk to me in parables; Chamont,
You may have known that I'm no wordy man;
Fine speeches are the instruments of knaves
Or fools, that use them, when they want good sense;
But honesty

Needs no disguise nor ornament; be plain.
Cham. Your son-

Pri. WHY,cruel Heaven, have my unhappy days Been lengthen'd to this sad one? Oh! dishonour And deathless infamy are fallen upon me. Was it my fault? Am I a traitor? No. But then, my only child, my daughter, wedded; There my best blood runs foul, and a disease Incurable has seized upon my memory, To make it rot, and stink to after ages. Cursed be the fatal minute when I got her, Or would that I'd been anything but man, And raised an issue which would ne'er have wrong'd The miserable creatures, man excepted, Are not the less esteem'd, though their posterity Degenerate from the virtues of their fathers; The vilest beasts are happy in their offsprings, While only man gets traitors, whores, and villains. Cursed be the names, and some swift blow from fate Lay his head deep, where mine may be forgotten.

[me.

BEAUTY and Love fell once at odds,
And thus reviled each other:
Quoth Love, I am one of the gods,
And thou wait'st on my mother;
Thou hadst no power on man at all
But what I gave to thee;
Nor are you longer sweet, or fair,
Than men acknowledge me.

Away, fond boy, then Beauty cried,
We know that thou art blind;
And men of nobler parts they can
Our graces better find:

"Twas I begot the mortal snow,
And kindled men's desires;
I made thy quiver and thy bow,
And wings to fan thy fires.

Cupid in anger flung away,
And thus to Vulcan pray'd,

That he would tip his shafts with scorn,

To punish his proud maid.

So ever since Beauty has been

But courted for an hour;

To love a day is held a sin

'Gainst Cupid and his power.

SEAMAN'S SONG. FROM THE SAME.

O'ER the rolling waves we go, Where the stormy winds do blow, To quell with fire and sword the foe That dares give us vexation. Sailing to each foreign shore, Despising hardships we endure, Wealth we often do bring o'er,

That does enrich the nation.

* These extracts from the Loyal Garland have been placed among the Specimens according to the date of the edition. Most of the poetry in that miscellany is of a much older date.

Noble-hearted seamen are,
Those that do no labour spare,
Nor no danger shun or fear

To do their country pleasure.
In loyalty they do abound,
Nothing base in them is found;
But they bravely stand their ground
In calm and stormy weather.

TO THE NIGHTINGALE.

WHY, little charmer of the air,
Dost thou in music spend the morn,
While I thus languish in despair,
Oppress'd by Cynthia's hate and scorn?
Why dost thou sing and hear me cry?·
Tell, wanton songster, tell me why.

Great to the ear, though small to sight,
The happy lover's dear delight;
Fly to the bowers where such are laid,
And there bestow thy serenade:
Haste thee from sorrow, haste away,
Alas, there's danger in thy stay,
Lest hearing me so oft complain
Should make thee change thy cheerful
strain.

Then cease, thou charmer of the air,
No more in music spend the morn
With me that languish in despair,
Oppress'd by Cynthia's hate and scorn;
And do not this poor boon deny,
I ask but silence while I die.

ON THE SIGHT OF HIS MISTRESS'S HOUSE. FROM THE SAME.

To view these walls each night I come alone,
And pay my adoration to the stone;
Whence joy and peace are influenced on me,
For 'tis the temple of my deity.

As nights and days an anxious wretch by stealth Creeps out to view the place which hoards his wealth,

So to this house, that keeps from me my heart, I come, look, traverse, weep, and then depart*.

[* N. Hook and Philip Ayres are writers very little known, and scarcely meriting a place in these Selections. In no collection of our poets (and our so called "British Poets" have been made general and mediocre enough), have they ever found a place, in no Biographical Dictionary are their names included, and without Mr. Campbell's resurrection of them they must have slept with "Time and with Tom Hearne." A reader may be allowed to smile at Mr. Campbell's very general love for poetry in its essence, and his endeavours to recover and embalm decayed bodies, at his taste, and his general good-nature. Mr. Campbell's criticisms are everywhere distinguished by a discerning and cultivated mind, his selections at times by a kindness for the dead, and an anxiety to give what Mr. Ellis had not given.]

OF THE QUEEN.

THE lark, that shuns on lofty boughs to build
Her humble nest, lies silent in the field;
But if (the promise of a cloudless day)
Aurora, smiling, bids her rise and play,

Then straight she shows 'twas not for want of voice
Or power to climb, she made so low a choice:
Singing she mounts; her airy wings are stretch'd
Tow'rds heaven, as if from heaven her note she
fetch'd.

So we, retiring from the busy throng,
Use to restrain th' ambition of our song;
But since the light which now informs our age
Breaks from the court, indulgent to her rage,
Thither my Muse, like bold Prometheus, flies,
To light her torch at Gloriana's eyes.

For Mercy has, could Mercy's self be seen,
No sweeter look than this propitious queen.
Such guard and comfort the distressed find,
From her large power, and from her larger mind,
That whom ill Fate would ruin, it prefers,
For all the miserable are made hers.
So the fair tree whereon the eagle builds,
Poor sheep from tempests, and their shepherds,
The royal bird possesses all the boughs, [shields :
But shade and shelter to the flock allows.

ON MY LADY DOROTHY SYDNEY'S PICTURE.
SUCH was Philoclea, and such Dorus' flame!
The matchless Sydney, that immortal frame
Of perfect beauty, on two pillars placed,
Not his high fancy could one pattern, graced
With such extremes of excellence, compose
Wonders so distant in one face disclose!
Such cheerful modesty, such humble state,
Moves certain love, but with as doubtful fate
As when, beyond our greedy reach, we see
Inviting fruit on too sublime a tree.

All the rich flowers through his Arcadia found,
Amazed we see in this one garland bound.
Had but this copy (which the artist took
From the fair picture of that noble book)

AT PENSHURST.

HAD Dorothea lived when mortals made
Choice of their deities, this sacred shade
Had held an altar to her power that gave
The peace and glory which these alleys have ;
Embroider'd so with flowers where she stood,
That it became a garden of a wood.

Her presence has such more than human grace,
That it can civilise the rudest place;
And beauty too, and order, can impart,
Where Nature ne'er intended it, nor art.
The plants acknowledge this, and her admire,
No less than those of old did Orpheus' lyre.
If she sit down, with tops all tow'rds her bow'd,
They round about her into arbours crowd;
Or if she walk, in even ranks they stand,
Like some well-marshalld and obsequious band.
Amphion so made stones and timber leap
Into fair figures, from a confused heap:
And in the symmetry of her parts is found
A power like that of harmony in sound.

Ye lofty beeches ! tell this matchless dame,
That if together ye fed all one flame,
It could not equalise the hundredth part
Of what her eyes have kindled in my heart !—
Go, boy, and carve this passion on the bark
Of yonder tree, which stands the sacred mark
Of noble Sydney's birth*; when such benign,
Such more than mortal-making stars did shine,
That there they cannot but for ever prove
The monument and pledge of humble love;
His humble love whose hope shall ne'er rise higher
Than for a pardon that he dares admire.

THE STORY OF PHOEBUS AND DAPHNE APPLIED †.

THYRSIS, a youth of the inspired train,
Fair Sacharissa loved, but loved in vain :
Like Phoebus sung the no less am'rous boy;
Like Daphne she, as lovely, and as coy!
With numbers he the flying nymph pursues,
With numbers such as Phoebus' self might use !
Such is the chase when Love and Fancy leads,

And, rivals made, th' ensuing story marr'd.
Just Nature, first instructed by his thought,
In his own house thus practised what he taught.
This glorious piece transcends what he could think,
So much his blood is nobler than his ink!

[* That taller tree, which of a nut was set,
At his great birth, where all the Muses met.
BEN JONSON, To Penshurst.]

[The French claim this as belonging to them. To whomsoever it belongs, the thought is finely turned.GOLDSMITH.]