Death will be cruel to be kind:

For when he shall to armies fly,

Where men think blood too cheap to buy

Themselves a name,

He reconciles them, and deprives

The valiant men of more than lives,
A victory and fame:

Whilst Love, deceived by these cold shafts, instead
Of curing wounded hearts, must kill indeed.

Take pity, gods! some ease the world will find
To give young Cupid eyes, or strike Death blind:
Death should not then have his own will,

And Love, by seeing men bleed, leave off to kill.

THE CONTENTION OF AJAX AND ULYSSES.

1659.

THE EQUALITY OF THE GRAVE.*

THE glories of our blood and state

Are shadows, not substantial things;
There is no armour against fate;

Death lays his icy hand on kings:
Sceptre and crown

Must tumble down,

And in the dust be equal made

With the poor crooked scythe and spade.
Some men with swords may reap the field,
And plant fresh laurels where they kill;
But their strong nerves at last must yield;
They tame but one another still:

Early or late,

They stoop to fate,

And must give up their murmuring breath,
When they, pale captives, creep to death.

*This is said to have been a favourite song of Charles II.

The garlands wither on your brow,
Then boast no more your mighty deeds;
Upon Death's purple altar now

See, where the victor-victim bleeds:
Your heads must come

To the cold tomb,

Only the actions of the just

Smell sweet, and blossom in their dust.

SIR WILLIAM DAVENANT.

1605-1668.

[IF we cannot discover in the tedious poem of Gondibert any satisfactory evidence of that illustrious descent implied by the insinuation of Wood, the following songs might justify a suspicion of Davenant's poetical lineage. The character of Davenant's verse is by no means Shakesperean; but there is a spirit in these pieces not unworthy of such a paternity. They possess an energy

'That like a trumpet makes the spirits dance.'

The bounding versification fills the ear with music; and they are distinguished by a breadth of treatment and knowledge of effect seldom so successfully displayed within such restricted limits.]

THE SIEGE OF RHODES.

WOMEN PREPARING FOR WAR.

LET us live, live! for, being dead,
The pretty spots,

Ribbons and knots,

And the fine French dress for the head,
No lady wears upon her

In the cold, cold bed of honour.

Beat down our grottos, and hew down our bowers,

Dig up our arbours, and root up our flowers;

Our gardens are bulwarks and bastions become; Then hang up our lute, we must sing to the drum.

Our patches and our curls,

So exact in each station,
Our powders and our purls,
Are now out of fashion.

Hence with our needles, and give us your spades;
We, that were ladies, grow coarse as our maids.
Our coaches have driven us to balls at the court,
We now must drive barrows to earth up the fort.

JEALOUSY.

HIS cursed jealousy, what is't?

THI

'Tis love that has lost itself in a mist;

'Tis love being frighted out of his wits; "Tis love that has a fever got;

Love that is violently hot,

But troubled with cold and trembling fits.

'Tis yet a more unnatural evil:

'Tis the god of love, 'tis the god of love, possessed

with a devil.

'Tis rich corrupted wine of love, Which sharpest vinegar does prove;

From all the sweet flowers which might honey make, It does a deadly poison bring:

Strange serpent which itself doth sting!

It never can sleep, and dreams still awake;

It stuffs up the marriage-bed with thorns.

It gores itself, it gores itself, with imagined horns.

THE UNFORTUNATE LOVERS.

LOVE'S LOTTERY.

RUN to love's lottery! Run, maids, and rejoice:

When, drawing your chance, you meet your own choice;

And boast that your luck you help with design,
By praying cross-legged to Old Bishop Valentine.
Hark, hark! a prize is drawn, and trumpets sound!
Tan, ta, ra, ra, ra!

Tan, ta, ra, ra, ra !

Hark maids! more lots are drawn! prizes abound.
Dub! dub a, dub a, dub! the drum now beats!
And, dub a, dub a, dub, echo repeats;
As if at night the god of war had made
Love's queen a skirmish for a serenade.

Haste, haste, fair maids, and come away!
The priest attends, your bridegrooms stay.

Roses and pinks will be strewn where you go;
Whilst I walk in shades of willow, willow.

When I am dead let him that did stay me
Be but so good as kindly to lay me
There where neglected lovers mourn,
Where lamps and hallowed tapers burn,
Where clerks in quires sad dirges sing,
Where sweetly bells at burials ring.

My rose of youth is gone
Withered as soon as blown!
Lovers go ring my knell!
Beauty and love farewell!

And lest virgins forsaken
Should, perhaps, be mistaken.

In seeking my grave, alas! let them know
I lie near a shade of willow, willow.

'TIS,

THE COQUET.

IS, in good truth, a most wonderful thing
(I am even ashamed to relate it)

That love so many vexations should bring,
And yet few have the wit to hate it.

Love's weather in maids should seldom hold fair:
Like April's mine shall quickly alter;
I'll give him to-night a lock of my hair,
To whom next day I'll send a halter.

I cannot abide these malapert males,
Pirates of love, who know no duty;

Yet love with a storm can take down their sails,
And they must strike to Admiral Beauty.
Farewell to that maid who will be undone,
Who in markets of men (where plenty
Is cried up and down) will die even for one;
I will live to make fools of twenty.

THE LAW AGAINST LOVERS.

LOVE PROSCRIBED.

AKE all the dead! what ho! what ho!

WA

How soundly they sleep whose pillows lie low?

They mind not poor lovers who walk above
On the decks of the world in storms of love.
No whisper now nor glance shall pass

Through wickets or through panes of glass;
For our windows and doors are shut and barred.
Lie close in the church, and in the churchyard.
In every grave make room, make room!
The world's at an end, and we come, we come.
The state is now love's foe, love's foe;
Has seized on his arms, his quiver and bow;
Has pinioned his wings, and fettered his feet,
Because he made way for lovers to meet.

But O sad chance, his judge was old;

Hearts cruel grown, when blood grows cold. No man being young, his process would draw. O heavens that love should be subject to law! Lovers go woo the dead, the dead!

Lie two in a grave, and to bed, to bed!