I'L gaze no more on her bewitching face,
Since ruine harbours there in every place:
For my enchanted foul alike she drowns
With calms and tempests of her smiles and frowns.
I'l love no more those cruel eyes of hers,
Which, pleas'd or anger'd, still are murderers.
For if the dart (like lightning) thro' the ayr
Her beams of wrath, fhe kils me with despair;
If the behold me with a pleasing eye,
I furfet with exceffe of joy, and dye.
ETERNITY OF LOVE PROTESTED.
How ill doth he deserve a lover's name,
Whose pale weak flame
Cannot retain
His heat in spight of absence or disdain;
But doth at once, like paper fet on fire,
Burn and expire!
True love can never change his feat,
Nor did he ever love that could retreat.
That noble flame, which my brefst keeps alive,
Shall ftill furvive
Nor shall my love dye when my bodye's dead;
That shall wait on me to the lower fhade,
My very ashes in their urn
Shall, like a hallowed lamp, for ever burn.
BY HENRY KING, BISHOP OF CHICHESTER,'
Splendidis longum valedico nugis.
FAREWEL
WELL, fond Love, under whose childish whip
I have ferv'd out a weary prentiship;
Thou that haft made me thy fcorn'd property,
To dote on rocks, but yielding loves to fly :
Go, bane of my dear quiet and content,
Now practise on fome other patient.
Farewell, falfe Hope, that fann'd my warm defire,
Till it had rais'd a wild unruly fire,
Which nor fighs cool, nor tears extinguish can,
Although my eyes out-flow'd the ocean :
Forth of my thoughts for ever, thing of air,
Begun in errour, finish'd in despair.
Farewell, vain World, upon whose restless stage
Twixt Love and Hope, I have foold out my age;
Henceforth, ere fue to thee for my redress,
Ile wooe the wind, or court the wilderness;
And buried from the dayes difcovery,
My woful monument shall be a cell,
The murmur of the purling brook my knell; 20 My lafting epitaph the rock fhall grone: Thus when fad lovers ask the weeping stone, • What wretched thing does in that center lie? The hollow eccho will reply, 'twas I.
THE STORY OF PHOEBUS AND DAPHNE
THIRSIS, a youth of the inspired train,
Fair Sachariffa lov'd, but lov'd in vain :
Like Phoebus fung the no leffe amorous boy;
Like Daphne fhe, as lovely and as coy:
With numbers he the flying nimph pursues,
With numbers fuch as Phoebus felf might use:
Such is the chase when love and fancy leads
Ore craggy mountains, and through flowry meads;
Invok'd to teftifie the lovers care,
Or form fome image of his cruell fair.
Urg'd with his fury, like a wounded deer,
Ore thefe he fled; and, now approaching near,
Had reacht the nimph with his harmonious lay,
Whom all his charms could not incline to stay;
Yet what he fung in his immortal strain,
Though unsuccessfull, was not fung in vain:
All, but the nimph that fhould redress his wrong,
Attend his paffion, and approve his fong.
Like Phœbus thus, acquiring unfought praise,
He catcht at love, and fill'd his arm with bayes,
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