[In the same Collection.]

[From 6 stanzas.]

NAY, I confess I should despise A too, too easy gotten prize! Be coy, be cruel yet a while, Nor grant one gracious look or smile! Then every little grace

from thee Will seem a heaven on earth to me.

If thou would'st have me still love on
With all the flames I first begun,

must still as scornful be: For, if you once but burn like me, My flames will languish and be gone, Like fire that's shin'd on by the sun.


Nor lay these arts too soon aside,
In hopes your lover fast is tied;
For I have oft an angler seen,
With over-haste, lose all again ;
When, if the fool had longer staid,
The harmless fish had been betray'd.


(From Dryden's Collection.]

A SILLY shepherd woo'd, but wist not

How he might his mistress' favour gain. On a time they met, but kiss'd not

Ever after that he sued in vain. Blame her not, alas, though she said nay To him that might, but filed away.

Time perpetually is changing ;

Every moment alteration brings ; Love and beauty still estranging;

Women are, alas, but wanton things! He that will his mistress' favour gain, Must take her in a merry vein,

A woman's fancy's like a fever,

Or an ague, that doth come by fits; Hot, and cold, but constant never,

Even as the pleasant humour hits. Sick, and well again, and well, and sick, In love it is a woman's trick.

Now she will, and now she will not,

Put her to the trial, if once she smile ; Silly youth, thy fortune spill not,

Lingering labours oft themselves beguile. He that knocks, and can't get in, His pick-lock is not worth a pin.

A woman's

nay is no denial, Silly youths of love are served so. Put her to a farther trial,

Haply she'll take it, and say no. For 'tis a trick which women use, What they love they will refuse.

Silly youth, why dost thou dally?

Having got time and season fit; Then never stand“ Sweet, shall I shall I "

Nor too much commend an after wit; For he that will not when he may, When he will he shall have nay,


[From “ Select Ayres,” printed for J. Playford, 1669.]

Tell me, ye wandering spirits of the air,
Did you not see a nymph more bright, more fair
Than beauty's darling, or of looks more sweet
Than stol’n content? If such a one ye meet,
Wait on her hourly, wheresoe'er she flies,
And cry, and cry, Amyntor for her absence dies !

Go search the valleys, pluck up every rose,
You'll find a scent, a blush of her in those.
Fish, fish for pearl or coral—there you'll see
How oriental all her colours be.
Go, call the echoes to your aid, and cry,
Chloris ! Chloris ! for that's her name for whom

I die !

But stay awhile, I have inform'd you ill;
Were she on earth, she had been with me still :
Go, fly to heaven, examine every sphere,
And try what star hath lately lighted there.
If any brighter than the sun you see,
Fall down, fall down, and worship it, for that is she!



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