« ElőzőTovább »
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 ;
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.
Insulting beauty, you mis-spend
Those frowns upon your slave;
From all the charms you have.
Your conquering eyes so partial are,
Or mankind is so dull,
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.
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.
Cupid, I scorn to beg the art
From thy imaginary throne,
Or how to heal my own.
If she be coy, my airy mind
proves my scorn that was my wonder;
Love is a game; hearts are the prize;