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Oh let them come and taste this beer,
And water henceforth they'll forswear.

If that the Paracelsian crew
The virtues of this liquor knew,' '
Their endless toils they would give o'er,
And never use extractions more.

'Tis medicine; meat for young and old ;
Elixir; blood of tortur’d gold.

It is sublim’d; it's calcinate ;
'Tis rectified; precipitate;
It is Androgena, Sol's wife;
It is the Mercury of life;

It is the quintessence of malt;
And they that drink it want no salt.

It heals, it hurts; it cures, it kills;
Men's heads with proclamations fills;
It makes some dumb, and others speak ;
Strong vessels hold, and crack'd ones leak;

It makes some rich, and others poor;
It makes, and yet mars many a score.

On a Mistress of whose affection he was doubtful.

What though with figures I should raise
Above all height my mistress' praise ;
Calling her cheek a blushing rose,
The fairest June did e'er disclose ;
Her forehead, lilies; and her eyes,
The luminaries of the skies;
That on her lips ambrosia grows,
And from her kisses nectar flows ?
Too great hyperboles ! unless
She loves me, she is none of these,
But, if her heart and her desires
Do answer mine with equal fires,
These attributes are then too poor.-
She is all these, and ten times moic.

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HENRY GLAPTHORNE.

A poet who, like many of his contemporaries, seems to have

mistaken extravagance and exaggeration for tenderness and fancy. His best composition is entitled “ to my Friend, “ Advice:" it contains much good sense, and some good poetry, but it is too long for insertion here. Of his lighter pieces the following is perhaps the least unfavourable spe. cimen. His poems were printed in a small quarto, 1639. He wrote, besides, nine plays, five of which were printed singly in 1639 and 1640. Phillips pronounces him “ not “ altogether ill-deserving of the English stage.”

.

Unclose those eye-lids, and outshine

The brightness of the breaking day!
The light they cover is divine ;

Why should it fade so soon away!
Stars vanish so, and day appears ;
The sun's so drown’d i'th' morning's tears.

Oh! let not sadness cloud this beauty,

Which if you lose, you'll ne'er recover !
It is not love's, but sorrow's duty,

To die so soon for a dead lover.
Banish, oh! banish grief, and then
Our joys will bring our hopes again.

SIR JOHN SUCKLING,

Son of Sir John Suckling, knt. of Whitton, in Middlesex,

(comptroller of the household to James I. and Charles I. member of the privy council, and secretary of state;) is said to have been born in 1613. This date, however, seems to be inaccurate; for, Mr. Lysons (Env.of Lond. Vol.III.) has given the day of his baptism, from the parish register, four years earlier, viz. Feb. 10, 1608-9. Langbaine, not content with informing us that his birth was delayed to “the beginning of the eleventh month," (s according to his mother's reckoning) adds that his life was not less remarkable, “ for he had so pregnant a genius, that he

“ spoke Latin at five years old, and writ it at nine." In the course of his travels he made a campaign under Gustavus Adolphus; during which he was present at three battles, five sieges, and as many skirmishes; but a magnificent regiment of cavalry, raised at his own expense, (1200l.) in the beginning of our civil wars, which became equally conspicuous for cowardice and finery, threw a

considerable degree of ridicule on his military reputation. His plays have little merit, though Phillips says that in his

time they still brought audience to the theatres. But the grace and elegance of his songs and ballads are inimitable: they “ have a pretty touch,” says the author just quoted, “ of a gentile spirit, and seem to savour more of the grape " than lamp.” His prose writings have been also much admired. He died of a fever, in 1641, aged only 28 years. For further particulars see Cibber's Lives, and Grainger's

Biographical History of England. His works were published in 1646, 8vo. and his “ Last

“ remains” in 1659. They have been several times reprinted.

SONG.

Wily so pale and wan, fond lover ?

Prithee, why so pale ?
Will, when looking well can't move her,

Looking ill prevail ?
Prithee, why so pale ?

Why so dull and mute, young sinner ?

Prithee, why so mute ?
Will, when speaking well can't win her,

Saying nothing do't?
Prithee, why so mute?

Quit, quit for shame; this will not move,

This cannot take her:
If of herself she will not love,

Nothing can make her.
The devil take her!

SONG,

Honest lover whosoever,
If in all thy love there ever

Was one wavering thought, if thy flame
Were not still even, still the same;

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