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SNOW.

See how the feather'd blossoms through the air

Traverse a thousand various paths, to find On the impurer earth a place that's fair,

Courting the conduct of each faithless wind !

See how they seem to hover near their end,

Nicely supported on their doubtful wings, Yet all by an impulse of fate descend,

On dunghills some, some on the courts of kings.

Of warmest vapours, which the sun exhales,

All are compos'd; and, in a short-liv'd hour, Their dazzling pride and coyest beauty falls,

Dissolv'd by Phæbus, or a weeping shower.

All, of one matter form’d, to one return :

Their fall is greatest who are plac'd most high: Let not the proud presume, or poorest mourn:

Their fate's decreed, and every one must die.

Boast not of endless wealth, or noble birth ;
From earth all come, all must return to earth.

JOHN WILMOT, EARL OF ROCHESTER,

Was born in 1648, and died in 1680. The anecdotes of his

life are too numerous for abridgment, and too well known to require insertion in this place.

SONG.

Insulting beauty, you mis-spend

Those frowns upon your slave;
Your scorn against such rebels bend,
Who dare with confidence pretend
That other eyes their hearts defend

From all the charms you have.

Your conquering eyes so partial are,

Or mankind is so dull,
That, while I languish in despair,
Many proud senseless hearts declare,
They find you not so killing fair,

To wish you merciful.

They an inglorious freedom boast;

I triumph in my chain; Nor am I unreveng'd, though lost, . Nor you unpunish'd, though unjust, When I alone, who love you most,

Am kill'd with your disdain.

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SIR FRANCIS FANE, K. B.

This author, who was grandson to the earl of Westmore

land, is very highly commended by Langbaine. Besides a few poems printed in Tate's Miscellanies, he published two plays, viz. “ Love in the Dark,” a comedy, 1675, and the “ Sacrifice," a tragedy, 1686 ; and a masque. The following is extracted from his comedy.

SONG.

Cupid, I scorn to beg the art

From thy imaginary throne,
To learn to wound another's heart,

Or how to heal my own.

If she be coy, my airy mind
Brooks not a siege; if she be kind,
She

proves my scorn that was my wonder;
For, towns that yield I hate to plunder.

Love is a game; hearts are the prize;
Pride keeps the stakes ; art throws the dice:

When either's won

The game is done. Love is a coward, hunts the flying prey, But when it once stands still, love runs away.

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