I thought to move this dame to love,
But she was gone already:
Wherefore I pray, that those who stay
May find their loves as steady!


Causin to the celebrated dramatic writer, was author of the

“ Purple Island,” “ Piscatory Eclogues," “ Locustæ,” and of a dramatic work intitled “Sicelides," 1631. For his poetical character, the reader is referred to Mr. Headley's “ Select Specimens of English Poetry.”.


Love's sooner felt than seen; his substance thinne

Betwixt those snowy mounts in ambush lies ; Oft in the eyes he spreads his subtle ginne;

He therefore soonest wins that fastest flies. Fly thence, my dear, fly fast, my Thomalin, Who him encounters once, for ever dies.

But if he lurk between the ruddy lips,

Unhappy soul, that thence his nectar sips, While down into his heart the sugar'd poison slips.

Oft in a voice be creeps down thro' the ear,

Oft from a blushing cheek he lights his fire: Oft shrouds his golden flame in likest hair ;

Oft in a soft smooth skin doth close retire :

Oft in a smile: oft in a silent tear:
And if all fail, yet virtue's self he'll hire.

Himself's a dart, when nothing else can move:

Who then the captive soul can well reprove, When love and virtue's self become the darts of love, SIR JOHN BEAUMONT,

Brother of Francis Beaumont, and author of “ Bosworth

“ Field,” and other poems, 1629. According to Wood, he was entered at Oxford, in 1596, at the age of 14, consequently born in 1582.


Love is a region full of fires,
And burning with extreme desires ;

An object seeks, of which possess'd
The wheels are fix’d, the motions rest,

The flames in ashes lie oppress’d.
This meteor, striving high to rise,
(The fuel spent) falls down and dies.


Why then should lovers (most will say)
Expect so much th' enjoying day?

Love is like youth: he thirsts for age,
He scorns to be his mother's page ;

But when proceeding times assuage
The former heat, he will complain,
And wish those pleasant hours again.

We know that Hope and Love are twins ;
Hope gone, fruition now begins :

But what is this ? unconstant, frail,
In nothing sure, but sure to fail,

Which, if we lose it, we bewail ;
And when we have it, still we bear
The worst of passions, daily fear!

When Love thus in his centre ends,
Desire and Hope, his inward friends,

Are shaken off; while Doubt and Grief,
The weakest givers of relief,

Stand in his council as the chief.
And now he to his period brought,
From Love becomes some other thought.

These lines I write not to remove
United souls from serious love:

The best attempts by mortals made
Reflect on things which quickly fade ;

Yet never will I men persuade
To leave affections, where may shine
Impressions of the love divine,

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