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O let them come and taste this beer,
And water, henceforth, they'll forswear.

If that the Paracelsian crew
The virtues of this liquor knew,
Their endless toils they would give o'er,
And never use extractions more.

'Tis medicine; meat for young and old;
Elixir; blood of tortured gold.

It is sublimed; it's calcinate;
'Tis rectified; precipitate;
It is Androgena, Sol's wife;
It is the Mercury of life ;

It is the quintessence of malt;
And they that drink it want no salt.

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It heals, it hurts; it cures, it kills;
Men's heads with proclamations fills;
It makes some dumb, and others speak;
Strong vessels hold, and crack'd ones leak;

It makes some rich, and others poor;
It makes, and yet mars many a score.

On a Mistress of whose affection he was doubtful.

What though with figures I should raise
Above all height my mistress' praise ;
Calling her cheek a blushing rose,
The fairest June did e'er disclose;
Her forehead, lilies; and her eyes,
The luminaries of the skies;
That on her lips ambrosia grows,
And from her kisses nectar flows ?
Too great hyperboles ! unless
She loves me, she is none of these !
But, if her heart and her desires
Do answer mine with equal fires,
These attributes are then too poor.-
She is all these, and ten times more,

HENRY GLAPTHORNE,

A poet who, like many of his contemporaries, seems to have

mistaken extravagance and exaggeration, for tenderness and fancy. His best composition is entitled “ Advice to a « Friend:” it contains much good sense, and some good poetry, but it is too long for insertion here. Of his lighter pieces, the following is perhaps the least unfavourable specimen. His poems were printed in a small volume 4to. in 1639. He wrote, besides, nine plays, five of which were printed singly in 1639 and 1646,

Unclose those eye-lids, and outshine

The brightness of the breaking day!
The light they cover, is divine;

Why should it fade so soon away?
Stars vanish so, and day appears ;
The sun's so drown'd i' th' morning's tears.

Oh! let not sadness cloud this beauty,

Which if you lose, you'll ne'er recover!
It is not love's, but sorrow's duty;

To die so soon for a dead lover.
Banish, oh! banish grief, and then
Our joys will bring our hopes again.

SIR JOHN SUCKLING,

Was born in 1613, and died at 28 years of age, in 1641. He

is said to have served with some distinction as a volunteer under Gustavus Adolphus; but a magnificent regiment of cavalry, which he raised in the beginning of our civil wars, and which became equally conspicuous for cowardice and finery, threw a considerable degree of ridicule on his military reputation. His four plays have little merit, but the grace and elegance of his songs and ballads, are inimitable. His works were published in 1646, 1648, 1658, 1696, &c.

SONG.

Why so pale and wan, fond lover?

Prithee, why sq pale?
Will, if looking well can't move her,

Looking ill prevail ?
Prithee, why so pale !

Why so dull and mute, young sinner?

Prithee, why so mute ?

Will, when speaking well can't win her,

Saying nothing do't?
Prithee, why so mute?

Quit, quit for shame; this will not move,

This cannot take her:
If of herself she will not love,

Nothing can make her.
The Devil take her!

SONG.

Honest lover whosoever,
If in all thy love there ever

Was one wav'ring thought, if thy flame
Were not still even, still the same ;

Know this,

Thou loy'st amiss,
And, to love true,
Thou must begin again, and love anew.

If, when she

appears

? th?

room, Thou došt not quake, and art struck dumb,

And in striving this to cover
Dost not speak thy words twice over ;

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