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JEALOUSY, TYRANT OF THE MIND.

JOHN DRYDEN.

What state of life can be so blest,
As love that warms the Lover's breast;
Two souls in one; the same desire
To grant the bliss, and to require?
But if in heaven a hell we find,
"Tis all from thee,

O Jealousy!

Thou tyrant, tyrant Jealousy.
Thou tyrant of the mind.

All other ills, though sharp they prove,
Serve to refine and perfect love :
In absence, or unkind disdain,
Sweet hope relieves the lovers pain:
But, oh, no cure but death we find
To set us free,
From Jealousy,
O Jealousy!

Thou tyrant, tyrant Jealousy,

Thou tyrant of the mind.

False in thy glass all objects are,
Some set too near, and some too far:
Thou art the fire of endless night,
The fire that burns, and gives no light.
All torments of the damn'd we find
In only thee,

VOL. I.

O Jealousy!

Thou tyrant, tyrant Jealousy.
Thou tyrant of the mind.

I

[Inserted by Dryden in his Tragi-comedy of Love Triumphant. The idea is probably taken from Herrick's Hesperides, p. 197, see the lines beginning :

O jealousie that art

The canker of the heart.

Percy gave this Song the advantage of his poetical genius; whatever the Dr. touched he generally improved.]

YE HAPPY SWAINS.

SIR GEORGE ETHEREGE.

Born 1636-Died 1688.

Ye happy swains, whose hearts are free
From Love's imperial chain,
Take warning, and be taught by me,
T'avoid th' enchanting pain.
Fatal, the wolves to trembling flocks,
Fierce winds to blossoms, prove,
To careless seamen hidden rocks,
To human quiet love.

Fly the fair sex if bliss you prize;
The snake's beneath the flow'r :
Who ever gaz'd on beauteous eyes,
That tasted quiet more?

How faithless is the lovers joy!

How constant is their care!

The kind with falsehood do destroy,
The cruel with despair.

SEE HOW FAIR CORINNA LIES.

SIR GEORGE ETHEREGE.

See, how fair Corinna lies,
Kindly calling with her eyes:
In the tender minute prove her ;
Shepherd! why so dull a lover
Prithee, why so dull a lover.

In her blushes see your shame,—
Anger they with love proclaim;
You too coldly entertain her :
Lay your pipe a little by ;
If no other charms you try,
You will never, never gain her.

While the happy minute is,
Court her, you may get a kiss,
May be, favours that are greater:
Leave your piping to her fly;
When the nymph for love is nigh,
Is it with a tune you treat her?

Dull Amintor! fie, Oh! fie:
Now your Shepherdess is nigh
Can you pass your time no better.

[In Southern's "Disappointment, or the Mother in Fashion."]

ON A YOUNG LADY WHO SUNG FINELY, AND WAS AFRAID OF A COLD.

LORD ROSCOMMON.

Died 1684.

Winter, thy cruelty extend,
Till fatal tempests swell the sea,
In vain let sinking pilots pray;
Beneath thy yoke let nature bend,
Let piercing frost, and lasting snow,
Through woods and fields destruction sow!

Yet we unwoo'd will sit and smile,
While you these lesser ills create,
These we can bear; but gentle Fate,

And thou, bless'd genius of our isle,
From Winter's rage defend her voice,
At which the listening Gods rejoice.

May that celestial sound each day
With ecstacy transport our souls,
Whilst all our passion it controuls,

And kindly drives our cares away;
Let no ungentle cold destroy
All taste we have of heavenly joy!

[The Life of the Earl of Roscommon has been written with great elegance by Dr. Johnson. He was born in Ireland during the lieutenancy of his Uncle and Godfather Lord Strafford.]

TO ALL YOU LADIES NOW AT LAND.

LORD DORSET.

Born 1637-Died 1706.

To all you Ladies now at land,
We men at sea indite;

But first would have you understand
How hard it is to write;

The muses, now, and Neptune too,
We must implore to write to you.
With a fa la, la, la, la.

For though the muses should prove kind,
And fill our empty brain;

Yet if rough Neptune rouse the wind
To wave the azure main,

Our paper, pen, and ink, and we,

Roll up and down our ships at sea.
With a fa, &c.

Then, if we write not by each post,
Think not we are unkind;
Nor yet conclude our ships are lost
By Dutchmen or by wind:

Our tears we'll send a speedier way,
The tide shall bring them twice a day.
With a fa, &c.

The king, with wonder and surprise,
Will swear the seas grow bold;
Because the tides will higher rise
Than e'er they did of old:

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