But I will briefer with them be,
Since few of them were long with me:

An higher and a nobler ştrain
My present emperess does claim,
Eleonora, first o' th' name,

Whom God grant long to reign.

ANDREW MARVELL.

The life of this accomplished man, who, though principally distinguished by his inflexible patriotism, was generally and justly admired for his learning, his acuteness in controversial writing, his wit, and his poetical talents, is to be found in almost every biographical work (excepting Dr. Johnson's Lives of the Poets); and is, besides, incapable of being so far compressed as to find its place in this little miscellany.

He was born in 1620, at Kingston upon Hull, (the town which he so long represented in Parliament) and died in London, August 16, 1678.

A neat edition of his poems was published by Davies, in two

small volumes, 1772. But the most complete and splendid collection of his works appeared in three volumes 4to. 1776, under the care of Capt. Edward Thompson.

DAPHNIS AND CHLOE.

[Abridged from 27 stanzas.]

DAPHNIS must from Chloe part:

Now is come the dismal hour,
That must all his hopes devour,

All his labour, all his art.

Nature, her own sex's foe,
Long had taught her to be coy;
But she neither knew ť enjoy,
Nor yet let her lover go.

But, with this sad news surpris'd,
Soon she let that niceness fall;
And would gladly yield to all,
So it had his stay compris'd.

He, well read in all the ways

By which men their siege maintain, Knew not that, the fort to gain, Better 'twas the siege to raise.

But he came so full possess'd
With the grief of parting thence,
That he had not so much sense
As to see he might be bless'd;

Till love in her language breath'd
Words she never spake before;
But than legacies no more
To a dying man bequeath'd.

1

As the soul of one scarce dead,
With the shrieks of friends aghast,
Looks distracted back in haste,
And then straight again is fled;

So did wretched Daphnis look,
Frighting her he loved most.
At the last, this lover's ghost
Thus his leave resolved took.

Are my hell and heaven join'd,
More to torture him that dies?
Could departure not suffice,
But that you must then grow kind?

Ah my Chloe! how have I

Such a wretched minute found,

When thy favours should me wound, More than all thy cruelty?

So to the condemned wight,
The delicious cup we fill;
And allow him all he will,

For his last and short delight.

But I will not now begin
Such a debt unto my foe;
Nor to my departure owe
What my presence could not win.

Gentler times for love are meant:
Who for parting pleasure strain,
Gather roses in the rain,

Wet themselves, and spoil their scent.

Farewell therefore all the fruit,

Which I could from love receive!
Joy will not with sorrow weave,

Nor will I this grief pollute.

Fate, I come, as dark, as sad,
As thy malice could desire;
Yet bring with me all the fire,
That love in his torches had.

At these words away he broke,
As who long has praying lien,
To his head's-man makes the sign,
And receives the parting stroke.