Some die, yet never are believed;
Others we trust too soon,
Helping ourselves to be deceived,
And proved to be undone.

COME CHLORIS.

Come, Chloris, hie we to the bower,
To sport us ere the day be done!
Such is thy power that every flower

Will ope to thee as to the sun.
And if a flower but chance to die
With my sighs blast or mine eyes rain,
Thou canst revive it with thine eye,
And with thy breath make sweet again.
The wanton suckling, and the vine,
Will strive for th'. honour, who first may
With their green arms encircle thine,
To keep the burning sun away.

[From "The Academy of Compliments," 1671.]

CONSTANCY.

JOHN WILMOT, LORD ROCHESTER.

Born 1648-Died 1680.

I cannot change, as others do,
Though you unjustly scorn:

Since that poor swain who sighs for you
For you alone was born.

No, Phillis, no, your heart to move,
A surer way I'll try :

And to revenge my slighted love,
Will still love on and die.

When killed with grief, Amyntas lies;

And you to mind shall call

The sighs that now unpitied rise,

The tears that vainly fall:

That welcome hour that ends this smart,

Will then begin your pain;

For such a faithful tender heart

Can never break in vain.

[The Songs of the celebrated Lord Rochester, are his only writings free from indecency. Horace Walpole happily characterised his verse as having "much more obscenity than wit, more wit than poetry, more poetry than politeness."]

AN IMITATION OF CORNELIUS GALLUS.

JOHN WILMOT, LORD. ROCHESTER.

My Goddess Lydia, heavenly fair,
As lilies sweet, as soft as air;

Let loose thy tresses, spread thy charms,
And to my love give fresh alarms.

O let me gaze on those bright eyes,
Though sacred lightning from them flies:
Show me that soft, that modest grace,
Which paints with charming red thy face.

Give me ambrosia in a kiss,
That I may rival Jove in bliss;
That I may mix my soul with thine,
And make the pleasure all divine.
O hide thy bosom's killing white,
(The milky way is not so bright)
Lest you my ravish'd soul oppress,
With beauty's pomp and sweet excess.

Why draws't thou from the purple flood
Of my kind heart the vital blood?
Thou art all over endless charms;
O! take me, dying, to thy arms.

FROM ANACREON.

JOHN WILMOT, LORD ROCHESTER.

Vulcan, contrive me such a cup
As Nestor us'd of old;
Show all thy skill to trim it up,
Damask it round with gold.

Make it so large, that, fill'd with sack
Up to the swelling brim,
Vast toasts in the delicious lake,
Like ships at sea, may swim.

Engrave not battle on his cheek,

With war I've nought to do;
I'm none of those that took Maestrich,
Nor Yarmouth leaguer knew.

Let it no name of planets tell,
Fix'd stars or constellations;

For I am no Sir Sydrophel,

Nor none of his relations.

But carve thereon a spreading vine,
Then add two lovely boys;

Their limbs in am'rous folds entwine,
The type of future joys.

Cupid and Bacchus my saints are,
May drink and love still reign;
With wine I wash away my care,
And then to love again.

WHILST ON THOSE LOVELY LOOKS I GAZE.

JOHN WILMOT, LORD ROCHESTER.

Whilst on those lovely looks I gaze,
To see a wretch pursuing,
In raptures of a blest amaze,
His pleasing happy ruin;
'Tis not for pity that I move;

His fate is too aspiring,

Whose heart, broke with a load of love,
Dies wishing and admiring.

But if this murder you'd forego,
Your slave from death removing,

Let me your art of charming know,
Or learn you mine of loving.

But whether life or death betide,
In love 'tis equal measure;
The victor lives with empty pride,
The vanquish'd die with pleasure.

FROM ALL UNEASY PASSIONS FREE.

JOHN SHEFFIELD, DUKE OF BUCKINGHAM.

Born about 1650-Died 1721

From all uneasy passions free,
Revenge, ambition, jealousy ;
Contented I had been too blest,
If love and you had let me rest.
Yet that dull life I now despise:

Safe from your eyes,

I fear'd no

griefs, but then I found no joys.

Amidst a thousand kind desires;
Which beauty moves, and love inspires
Such pangs I feel of tender fear,
No heart so soft as mine can bear.
Yet I'll defy the worst of harms,
Such are your charms,

'Tis worth a life to die within your arins.

VOL. I.

K