Did she consent

Or he relent?

Accepts he night, or grants she ́noon?
Left he her a maid,

Or not! she said,

Forego me now, come to me soon."

(This whimsical but beautiful song, is given somewhat out of its place-belonging as it does to an earlier period. Cayley has printed it as the composition of Raleigh, but Sir Walter's right to it is very questionable. Walton mentions it in the Angler, and Percy allowed

it a niche in the Reliques of English Poetry. The Bishop remarks that "it is more ancient than the ballad of Robin Goodfellow."]

LOVE IN FANTASTIC TRIUMPH SAT.

APHRA BEHN.

Born about 1630-Died 1689.

Love in fantastic triumph sat,

Whilst bleeding hearts around him flow'd,
For whom fresh pains he did create,
And strange tyrannic power he shew'd.
From thy bright eyes he took his fires,
Which round about in sport he hurl'd;
But 'twas from mine he took desires,
Enough t' undo the amorous world.

From me he took his sighs and tears,
From thee his pride and cruelty,
From me his languishment and fears,
And every killing dart from thee.

Thus thou, and I, the God have arm'd,
And set him up a deity;

But my poor heart alone is harm'd,

Whilst thine the victor is and free.

"

[Mrs. Aphra Behn was a dramatic writer of Charles the Second's day, but her plays are full of the licentiousness of the age, which happily soon after the pen of Jeremy Collier somewhat abated. Even Dryden, who was he observes himself" too much of a libertine in his poems,' complains in a letter to Mrs. Thomas (the Corinna of Curll), that Mrs. Behn's plays were full of loose writing, and brought scandal on the modesty of her sex. This is one of her best songs; according to Mr. Dyce," had it proceeded from the pen of Moore, it would have been admired in the present day." It appears in "Abdelazar, or the Moor's Revenge."]

MIRTILLO.

CHARLES COTTON.

Born 1630-Died 1687.

Ask not, why sorrow shades my brow;
Nor why my sprightly looks decay?
Alas! what need I beauty now,

Since he, that lov'd it, died to day.

Can ye have ears, and yet not know
Mirtillo, brave Mirtillo's slain?
Can ye have eyes, and they not flow,

Or hearts that do not share my pain?

He's gone, he's gone! and I will go;
For in my breast such wars I have,
And thoughts of him perplex me so

That the whole world appears my grave.

But I'll go to him, though he lie

Wrapt in the cold, cold arms of death:
And under yon sad cypress tree,

I'll mourn, I'll mourn away my breath.

TO A FAIR YOUNG LADY, GOING OUT OF TOWN

IN THE SPRING.

JOHN DRYDEN.

Born 1631-Died 1701.

Ask not the cause, why sullen Spring
So long delays her flowers to bear;
Why warbling birds forget to sing,

And winter storms invert the year :
Chloris is gone, and fate provides
To make it Spring where she resides.

Chloris is gone, the cruel fair;

She cast not back a pitying eye:
But left her lover in despair,

To sigh, to languish, and to die:
Ah, how can those fair eyes endure
To give the wounds they will not cure.

Great god of love, why hast thou made

A face that can all hearts command,
That all religions can invade,

And change the laws of every land?
Where thou hadst plac'd such power before,
Thou shouldst have made her mercy more.

When Chloris to the temple comes,
Adoring crowds before her fall;
She can restore the dead from tombs,
And every life but mine recall.
I only am by love design'd
To be the victim for mankind.

THE FAIR STRANGER.

JOHN DRYDEN.

Happy and free, securely blest,
No beauty could disturb my rest;
My amorous heart was in despair,
To find a new victorious fair.

Till you descending on our plains,
With foreign force renew my chains;
Where now you rule without control
The mighty sovereign of my soul.

Your smiles have more of conquering charms
Than all your native country arms:
Their troops we can expel with ease,
Who vanquish only when we please.

But in your eyes, oh! there's the spell,
Who can see them, and not rebel?
You make us captives by your stay,
Yet kill us if you go away.

[This song is a compliment to the Duchess of Portsmouth, on her first coming to England.]

SONG IN THE CONQUEST OF GRANADA.

JOHN DRYDEN.

Wherever I am, and whatever I do,
My Phillis is still in my mind;

When angry I mean not to Phillis to go,
My feet of themselves the way find:
Unknown to myself I am just at her door,
And, when I would rail, I can bring out no more,
Than Phillis too fair and unkind.

When Phillis I see, my heart bounds in my breast,
And the love I would stifle is shown;

But asleep or awake, I am never at rest,

When from my eyes Phillis is gone.

Sometimes a sad dream does delude my sad mind:
But, alas! when I wake, and no Phillis I find,
How I sigh to myself all alone.

Should a king be my rival in her I adore,

He should offer his treasure in vain : 9, let me alone to be happy and poor, And give me my Phillis again!

Let Phillis be mine, and but ever be kind,
I could to a desert with her be confined,
And envy no monarch his reign.

Alas! I discover too much of my love,

And she too well knows her own power, She makes me each day a new martyrdom prove, And makes me grow jealous each hour: But let her each minute torment my poor mind, I had rather love Phillis, both false and unkind, Than ever be freed from her power.