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I came with intent to chide her,

'Cause she had true love abus'd, Resolved never to abide her:

Yet, her fault she so excus'd,

As it did me more entangle;

Telling “ True love must have fears."They ne'er lov'd that ne'er did wrangle ;

Lovers' jars but love endears.

SONG.

SERVANT, farewell is this my hire ? Do my

deserts no more require ? No! do not think to cheat me so; I will have more yet ere you go.

Thy lov'd idea I'll arrest,
And it imprison in my breast:
In sad conceit it there shall lie,
My jealous love shall keep the key.

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Nor think it ever shall part thence
Or that I will with it dispense:
Thy love alone can me avail,
Thyself alone I'll take for bail.

[Extracted from Philomela.]

The maple with a scarry skin

Did spread broad pallid leaves ; The quaking aspin, light and thin, To th' air light passage gives;

Resembling still

The trembling ill
Of tongues of womankind,

Which never rest,

But still are prest To wave with

every

wind.

JOHN HAGTHORPE.

A small volume of his poems, consisting of “ Divine Medi

“tations and Elegies," was published in 1622, and in the next year a second collection, which he calls “ Visiones “ Rerum, the Visions of Things." All of these bear testimony to his learning and piety, but his subjects were too sublime for his genius. Of the anecdotes of his life I know nothing.

ON TIME.

Tine! I ever must complain

Of thy craft and cruel cunning; Seeming fix'd here to remain, When thy feet are ever running :

And thy plumes

Still resumes
Courses new, repose most shunning.

Like calm winds thou passest by us;

Lin'd with feathers are thy feet; Thy downy wings with silence fly us,

Like the shadows of the night;

Or the stream

That no beam
Of sharpest eye discerns to fleet.

Therefore mortals all, deluded

By thy grave and wrinkled face, In their judgments have concluded That thy slow and snail-like pace

Still doth bend

To no end,
But to an eternal race.

Budding youth's vain blooming wit

Thinks the spring shall ever last ; And the gaudy flowers that sit On Flora's brow, shall never taste

Winter's scorn,

Nor, forlorn, Bend their heads with chilling blast.

Riper age expects to have
Harvests of his

proper

toil : Times to give, and to receive Seeds and fruits from fertile soil :

But at length

Doth his strength,
Youth, and beauty, all recoil.
VOL. III.

I

Cold December hope retains,

That the spring, each thing reviving, Shall throughout his aged veins Pour fresh youth, past joys repriving :

But thy scythe

Ends his strife,
And to Lethe sends him driving.

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