He would sit, and mark, and do
What I did; now ruffle all

His feathers o'er, now let them fall, And then straightway sleek them too.

Whence will Cupid get his darts
Feather'd now, to pierce our hearts?
A wound he may,

Not love, convey,
Now this faithful bird is gone.

Oh! let mournful turtles join

With loving red breasts, and combine

To sing dirges o'er his stone.

SONG.

[From "The Ordinary."]

WHILES early light springs from the skies,
A fairer from your bride doth rise ;
A brighter day doth thence appear,
And make a second morning there.

Her blush doth shed

All o'er the bed

Clear shame-fac'd beams,
That spread in streams,

And purple round the modest air.

I will not tell what shrieks and cries, What angry pishes, and what fies, What pretty oaths, then newly born, The listening taper heard there sworn:

Whiles froward she,

Most peevishly,

Did yielding fight

To keep o'er night

What she'd have proffer'd you ere morn.

Fair, we know maids do refuse

To grant what they do come to lose.
Intend a conquest, you that wed!

They would be chastely ravished:

Not any kiss

From Mrs. Pris,

If that you do

Persuade and woo.

Know, pleasure's by extorting fed.

Oh, may her arms wax black and blue

Only by hard encircling you;

May she round about you twine
Like the easy twisting vine;

And whiles you sip

COME, O Come, I brook no stay;
He doth not love that can delay!
See, how the stealing night

Hath blotted out the light,
And tapers do supply the day!

To be chaste, is to be old,

And that foolish girl that's cold,
Is fourscore at fifteen :

Desires do write us green,

And looser flames our youth unfold.

See, the first taper's almost gone!

Thy flame like that will straight be none;

And I, as it expire,

Unable to hold fire:

She loseth time that lies alone.

O let us cherish then these powers, Whiles we yet may call them ours! Then we best spend our time,

When no dull zealous chime,

But sprightful kisses strike the hours.

THOMAS NABBES.

Langbaine, without giving us any particulars of his life, only tells us that he was pretty much esteemed by his contemporaries. The first of the following specimens, extracted from his poems, (subjoined to "The Spring's Glory," a masque, Lond. 4to. 1639), has some originality: the second would not have been disowned by his patron, Suckling. See Biographia Dramatica.

Upon excellent strong Beer, which he drank at the town of Wich, in Worcestershire, where salt is made.

THOU ever youthful god of wine,

Whose burnish'd cheeks with rubies shine,
Thy brows with ivy chaplets crown'd;
We dare thee here to pledge a round!

Thy wanton grapes we do detest;
Here's richer juice from barley press'd.

Let not the Muses vainly tell,

What virtue's in the horse-hoof well,

That scarce one drop of good blood breeds,

But with mere inspiration feeds;