But as dull fubjects fee too late
Their fafety in monarchal reign;
Finding their freedom in a state

Is but proud strutting in a chain:

Then, growing wiser, when undone, In winter's nights fad ftories fing, In praise of monarchs long fince gone,

To whom their bells they yearly ring.

So now I mourn'd that she was dead Whose fingle pow'r did govern me; And quickly was by reafon led

To find the harm of liberty.

My foul, in fleep's foft fetters bound, Did now for vital freedom strive; And straight, by horror wak'd, I found The fair Clorinda ftill alive.

Yet fhe's to me but fuch a light

As are the ftars to those that know; We can at moft but guess their height, And hope they mind us here below,

THE MISTRESS.

WHEN Nature heard men thought her old,
Her skill in beauteous forms decay'd,
Her eyes grown dim, her fingers cold;
Then to her poet thus she said:

Catch, as it falls, the Scythian fnow,
Bring blushing rofes fteep'd in milk;
From early meadows scent, and show,
And from the Perfian worm her filk.

Fetch from the east the morning's breath,
And from the phoenix gums and fpice,
Such as fhe culls, when at her death
The world does fmell her facrifice.

Nature of these a mistress made,

But would have form'd a lover too; And fuch as might this nymph perfuade To all that love for love should do.

This fecond work fhe well began,
With leifure, and by flow degrees;
But found it hard to make a man,

That could fo choice a beauty please.

She wrought, and wrought, and then gave o'er:

Then did another model try;

But, lefs contented than before,

She laid the work for ever by.

I afk'd the cause; and straight she said,
'Tis very poffible, I find,

To match the body which I made;
But I can never fit the mind.

For that ftill various feems and ftrange;
And fince all lovers various be;

And apt as mistresses to change,

I cannot make my work agree.

Now fexes meet not by defign,

When they the world's chief work advance,

But in the dark they fometimes join,
As wandering atoms meet by chance.

ROBERT HEATH.

Author of "Claraftella," a collection of poems, in 12mo, printed in 1650.

SONG ANACREONTIC.

INVEST

my

head with fragrant rose,

That on fair Flora's bofom grows!

Distend my veins with purple juice,
That mirth may through my foul diffuse.
'Tis wine and love, and love in wine
Inspires our youth with flames divine.

Thus, crown'd with Paphian myrtle, I
In Cyprian fhades will bathing lie;
Whofe fnows if too much cooling, then
Bacchus fhall warm my blood again.

'Tis wine and love, and love in wine
Infpires our youth with flames divine.

Life's short and winged pleasures fly;
Who mourning live, do living die.
On down and floods then, fwan-like, I
Will stretch my limbs, and finging die.

'Tis wine and love, and love in wine,
Infpires our youth with flames divine.

STANZAS

ON CLARASTILLA SAYING SHE WOULD COMMIT HERSELF TO A NUNNERY,

STAY, Claraftella, prithee stay!
Recal those frantic vows again!
Wilt thou thus cast thyself away,
As well as me, in fond difdain?
Wilt thou be cruel to thyself? chastise
Thy harmless body, 'caufe thy powerful eyes
Have charm'd my fenfes by a strange surprise?

Is it a fin to be beloved?

If but the cause you could remove
Soon the effect would be removed;

Where beauty is, there will be love.
Nature, that wifely nothing made in vain,
Did make you lovely to be lov'd again,
And, when fuch beauty tempts, can love refrain?

When Heaven was prodigal to you,

And you with beauty's glory ftored,

He made you like himself for view,

To be beheld and then adored.

Why should the gold then fear to fee that fun
That form'd it pure? Why should you live a nun,
And hide those rays Heav'n gave to you

alone?