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 If she be coy, my airy mind Brooks not a siege; if she be kind, 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, 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 Then on her knees he hangs his head, 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? Lend me the bright wings of the morn, Far swifter than the lamp of night: Features and colours of the hair, In single simple love alone These various colours are but one. I' th' phlegmatic I sweetness find, All these complexions are but one. The nightingale doth never say Unto the cuckoo or the jay, |