Peace, Chloris! peace! or finging die, That together you and I To heav'n may go; For all we know Of what the bleffed do above, Is that they fing, and that they love. FLATMAN. This poet is a miserable imitator of Cowley. Of the three following extracts, the first is in the best style of his poetry ; the fecond a fpecimen of bis wit; and the third is remarkable from its having been imitated by Mr. Pope, in bis Ode of "The Dying Chriftian.” SONG. REMOV'D from fair Urania's eyes, Into a village far away, Fond Aftrophil began to say: Thy charms, Urania, I despise; "Go, bid fome other shepherd for thee die, "That never understood thy tyranny." Return'd at length, the amorous fwain, Ador'd again and bow'd his knee, The needle thus, that motionless did lie, Trembles and moves when the lov'd loadstone's by. SONG. How happy a thing were a wedding, If a man might purchase a wife, Till fhe grow as grey as a cat, Good faith, Mr. Parfon, I thank you for that. SONG. A THOUGHT ON DEATH. WHEN on my fick bed I languish, Panting, groaning, fpeechlefs, dying,-- CHARLES COTTON. This pleafing and elegant author rvas principally diftinguished by bis "Virgil Traveftie," and other burlesque Tranflations, and in this fiyle of writing was confidered as only inferior to Butler. His "Complete Angler," publifbed by Sir John Hawkins, together with that of Ifaac Walton, is also a defervedly popular performance. The following pieces are extracted from his "Poems on feveral Occafions, octavo, 1689." LORD! how TO CHLORIS. you take upon you still! How you crow and domineer! How ftill expect to have your will, And carry the dominion clear, As you were still the fame that once you were! Fie, Chloris, 'tis a grofs mistake, Correct your errors, and be wise; I kindly still your kindness take, But yet have learn'd, though love I prize, Your froward humours to despise, And now difdain to call them cruelties. I was a fool while you were fair, 'Tis beauty that to woman-kind Which once declining, or declin'd, Yet ftill you have enough, and more than needs, To rule a more rebellious heart than mine; For as your eyes ftill fhoot, my heart ftill bleeds, And I must be a fubject ftill: Nor is it much against my will, Though I pretend to wreftle and repine. Your beauties, fweet, are at their height, New years new graces ftill create, |