SONNET XVIII.

My love, I cannot thy rare beauties place
Under those forms which many writers use;
Some, like to stones compare their mistress' face,
Some in the name of flow'rs their love abuse;
Some make their love a goldsmith's shop to be,
Where orient pearls and precious stones abound:
In my conceit these far do disagree,

The perfect praise of beauty forth to sound.
O Chloris! thou dost imitate thyself,
Self-imitating passeth precious stones;

For all the Eastern Indian golden pelf,

Thy red and white with purest fair atones. Matchless for beauty, Nature hath thee framed, Only unkind and cruel art thou named.

DR. DONNE,

Was born in 1573, and died in 1631. His biographer, Isaac Walton, represents his oratory in the pulpit as extremely edifying; and Dryden was of opinion that his Satires" when "translated into numbers, and English," would be generally admired. As Pope has thus translated them, every reader is able to form his own judgment on the truth of this opinion. His poems were printed together in one volume duodecimo. London, 1719.

SONG.

Go, and catch a falling star,

Get with child a mandrake root,
Tell me where all times past are,
Or who cleft the Devil's foot;
Teach me to hear mermaids singing,
Or to keep off envy's stinging,
And find

What wind

Serves to advance an honest mind.

If thou be'st born to strange sights,

Things invisible, go see;

Ride ten thousand days and nights,

Till age snow white hairs on thee: Thou, when thou return'st, wilt tell me All strange wonders that befel thee, And swear

No where

Lives a woman true and fair.

If thou find'st one, let me know,
Such a pilgrimage were sweet;

Yet do not, I would not go,

Tho' at next door we might meet. Though she were true when you met her, And last till you write your letter,

Yet she

Will be

False ere I come to two or three.

SONG.

I NEVER stoop'd so low as they
Which on an eye, cheek, lip, can prey,
Seldom to them which soar no higher
Than virtue or the mind t' admire ;

For sense and understanding may
Know what gives fuel to their fire.

My love, tho' silly, is more brave,
For, may I miss whene'er I crave,
If I know yet what I would have.

BEN JONSON,

Born in 1574, and died in 1637.

SONG.

COME, my Celia, let us prove,
While we may, the sweets of love;
Time will not be ours for ever,
He at length our good will sever;
Spend not then his gifts in vain,
Suns that set may rise again;
But if once we lose the light,
"Tis with us perpetual night.
Why should we defer our joys?
Fame and rumour are but toys;
Cannot we delude the eyes
Of a few poor household spies?
Or his easier ears beguile,
So removed by our wile?
"Tis no sin love's fruits to steal;

But the sweet theft to reveal,

To be taken, to be seen,

These have crimes accounted been.