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OUT OF LYCOPHRON.
What shall become of man so wise
When he dies ?
None can tell
Or, after a few moments here,
And at last
But women, wine, and mirth, we know, Are all the joys he has below:
Let us then ply those joys we have;
Of time to come th' event,
Of what the knaves invent,
GEORGE DIGBY, EARL OF BRISTOL,
Born in Madrid, 1612: died, 1676. “A singular person,' “ (says lord Orford) whose life was one contradiction. He
wrote against popery, and embraced it: he was a zealous opposer of the court, and a sacrifice for it: was con
scientiously converted, in the midst of his prosecution of “ lord Strafford, and was most unconscientiously a prose
cutor of lord Clarendon. With great parts, he always “ hurt himself and his friends; with romantic bravery, “ he was always an unsuccessful commander. He spoke “ for the test-act though a Roman-catholic; and addicted « himself to astrology on the birth-day of true philosophy." For particulars of his life, and a catalogue of his writings,
vide Wood Ath. Vol. II. p. 579. This eccentric man composed a comedy called “ Elvira,"
from whence the following song is extracted. It was printed in 1667, and obtained his lordship a place in Suckling's “ Session of the Poets.”
See, O see!
A new life gives to others' joys,
Whilst that I
With any sweet
Hear, O hear!
And waters fall
Whilst to me,
Born at Alveston, in Gloucestershire; entered of Edm. Hall,
Oxford, in 1663, aged 15; “ continued there (says Wood) “ about 10 terms; went to the great city, lived after “ the manner of poets, in a debauched way, and wrote “partly for the use of his idle and vain companions, but
more to gain money to carry on the trade of folly.” Among other things he was author of “ New Court Songs “ and Poems," 8vo. 1672. He seems to have been an easy versifier, though without much originality,
VANITY OF WORLDLY HAPPINESS.
How eager are our vain pursuits
Of pleasure, and of worldly joys!
how empty are the fruits !
What, but a tempest, is the world,
Whereon this bark of ours is tost?
Is split against a rock, and lost !
The safer vulgar this with wonder see,
With costlý silks we do adorn
These stalking pageants, made of clay, Whose very flowers, when they are worn,
But emblems are of our decay : Batter'd by sickness, or inflam'd by lust, Or undermin’d by time, we fall to dust.
FRAILTY OF BEAUTY.
As poor Aurelia sat alone,
Hard by a river's flowery side,
Envious at nature's new-born pride, Her slighted self thus she reflected on.
Alas! that nature should revive
These flowers, which after winter's snow
Spring fresh again and brisker show; And for our brighter sex so ill contrive !
Beauty, like them, a short-liv'd thing,
On us in vain he did bestow;
Beauty, that only once can grow, An autumn has, but knows no second spring.