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Nor am I unreveng'd, though lost, Nor you unpunish'd though unjust, When I alone, who love you most,

Am kill'd with your disdain.

SIR FRANCIS FANE.

THIS author, who was grandson to the Earl of Westmoreland, and Knight of the Bath, is very highly commended by Langbaine. Besides a few poems printed in Tate's Miscellanies, he published two plays, viz. "Love in the Dark," a comedy, 1675, and "The Sacrifice," a tragedy, 1686; and a masque. The following is extracted from his comedy.

SONG.

CUPID, I Scorn to beg the art
From thy imaginary throne,
To learn to wound another's heart,
Or how to heal my own.

If she be coy, my airy mind

Brooks not a siege; if she be kind,
She proves my scorn that was my wonder;
For, towns that yield I hate to plunder.

Love is a game; hearts are the prize;

Pride keeps the stakes! Art throws the dice :

When either's won

The game is done.

Love is a coward, hunts the flying prey,

But when it once stands still, Love runs away.

UNCERTAIN AUTHORS.

SONG.

[From "The Academy of Compliments," edit. 1671.]

COME, Chloris, hie we to the bower,
To sport us ere the day be done!
Such is thy power, that every flower
Will ope to thee as to the sun.

And if a flower but chance to die

With my sighs' blast or mine eyes' rain, Thou can'st revive it with thine eye,

And with thy breath make sweet again.

The wanton suckling, and the vine,

Will strive for th' honour, who first may With their green arms encircle thine, To keep the burning sun away.

[From "Windsor Drollery," London, 1672.]

CUPID once was weary grown

With women's errands-laid him down

On a refreshing rosy bed:

The same sweet covert harboured

A bee; and as she always had

A quarrel with love's idle lad,

Stings the soft boy: pain and strong fears
Straight melt him into cries and tears.
As wings and feet would let each other,
Home he hastens to his mother;

Then on her knees he hangs his head,
And cries, "O mother, I am dead!
An ugly snake, they call a bee,
(O see it swell) hath murder'd me."
Venus with smiles replied, "O sir,
Does a bee's sting make all this stir?
Think what pains then attend those darts
Wherewith thou still art wounding hearts.
E'en let it smart!-may chance that then
Thou❜lt learn more pity towards men."

A Catholic Hymn.

[Printed among other "Miscellanies" in "The Poems of Ben Johnson, junior," 1672. It is also to be found in "Withers Redivivus, in a small new-year's-gift," 4to, 1689, and there called, "A copy from verses long since made." The text of the latter has been preferred in the following extract.]

OPINION rules the human state,

And domineers in every land:

Shall sea or mountain separate

Whom God hath join'd in nature's band?
Dwell they far off, or dwell they near,
They're all my father's children dear.

Lend me the bright wings of the morn,
That I from hence may take my flight
From Cancer unto Capricorn,

Far swifter than the lamp of night:
Where'er my winged soul doth fly
All's fair and lovely in mine eye.

Features and colours of the hair,
These all do meet in harmony;
The black, the brown, the red, the fair,
All tinctures of variety:

In single simple love alone

These various colours are but one.

I' th' phlegmatic I sweetness find,
The melancholy, grave, and wise;
The sanguine, merry to my mind,
From choler flames of love arise:
In single simple love alone

All these complexions are but one.

The nightingale doth never say
(Though he be king of melody)

Unto the cuckoo or the jay,
Why sing you not so sweet as I ?
Each tunes his harp in love alone,
These various notes are all but one.

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