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 Westmoreland, 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.

UNCERTAIN AUTHORS.

SONG.

[From "the Academy of Compliments,” edit. 1671.]

COME, Chloris, hie we to the bower,

To sport us ere the day be done! Such is thy power, that every flower Will ope to thee as to the sun.

And if a flower but chance to die

With my sigh's blast or mine eyes' rain,

Thou canst revive it with thine eye,

And with thy breath make sweet again.

The wanton suckling, and the vine,

Will strive for th' honour, who first may With their green arms encircle thine,

To keep the burning sun away.

[From "Windsor Drollery," London, 1672.]

CUPID once was weary grown
With women's errands-laid him down

On a refreshing rosy bed—

The same sweet covert harboured

A bee; and as she always had

A quarrel with love's idle lad,

Stings the soft boy: pain and strong fears
Straight melts him into cries and tears.
As wings and feet would let each other,
Home he hastens to his mother;
Then on her knees he hangs his head,
And cries, " O mother, I am dead!
"An ugly snake, they call a bee,
"(O see it swell) hath murder'd me."
Venus with smiles replied, "O sir,

"Does a bee's sting make all this stir?
"Think what pains then attend those darts
"Wherewith thou still art wounding hearts:
"E'en let it smart, may chance that then
"Thou❜lt learn more pity towards men."

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