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mine eyes, and the delight of mine heart, Anne Hathaway." This lady was eight years older than Shakespeare, but still only in her twenty-sixth year, when he married her-"an age," says Dr. Drake, "compatible with youth, and with the most alluring beauty."



WHY so pale and wan, fond lover?
Prethee, why so pale?

Will, when looking well, can't move her;

Looking ill, prevail?

Prethee, why so pale?

Why so dull and mute, young sinner?
Prethee, why so mute?

Will, when speaking well, can't win her;
Saying nothing, doe't?

Prethee, why so mute?

Quit, for shame! this will not move,
This cannot take her;

If of herself she will not love,

Nothing can make her:
The devil take her!

By Sir JOHN SUCKLING. This sprightly knight was born in 1613. He spoke Latin at five years of age, and wrote it when nine. He possessed a general knowledge of polite literature; but applied himself more particularly to music and poetry.

In the

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course of his foreign travels, he made a campaign under Gustavus Adolphus; and after his return, raised a splendid troop of horse at the expense of twelve thousand pounds, for the service of the king (Lloyd's Memoirs). This troop, with Sir John at its head, behaved so ill in their engagement with the Scots upon the English border, in 1639, as to occasion the famous lampoon by Sir John Mennis, "Sir John he got him an ambling nag, &c." (Percy, II. 323,) which was set to an Irish tune, and much sung by the parliamentarians.

This disastrous expedition, says Nichols, and the ridicule that attended it, was supposed to have hastened his death, which happened in 1641, in the twenty-eighth or twenty-ninth year of his age. The whole of his works were published several times by Tonson, and in two neat volumes by Davis, in 1770.

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He that loves a rosy cheek,
Or a coral lip admires,
Or from star-like eyes doth seek
Fuel to maintain his fires;
As old time makes these decay,
So his flames must waste away.

But a smooth and steadfast mind,

Gentle thoughts, and calm desires,
Hearts with equal love combin'd,

Kindle never-dying fires;
Where these are not, I despise
Lovely cheeks, or lips, or eyes.

No tears, Celia, now shall win
My resolv❜d heart to return;
I have search'd thy soul within,
And find nought but pride and scorn;
I have learn'd thy arts, and now
Can disdain as much as thou:

Some power, in my revenge, convey
That love to her I cast away.


Ask me no more,-where Jove bestows,
When June is past, the fading rose;
For in your beauty's orient deep,
These flowers as in their causes sleep.

Ask me no more,-whither do stray
The golden atoms of the day;
For in
love heaven did prepare
Those powders to enrich your hair.

Ask me no more,-whither doth haste
The nightingale, when May is past;
For in your sweet dividing throat
She winters, and keeps warm her note.

Ask me no more,-where those stars light
That downwards fall in dead of night;
For in your eyes they sit, and there
Fixed become, as in their sphere.

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Ask me no more,-if east or west
The phoenix builds her spicy nest;
For unto you, at last she flies,
And in your fragrant bosom dies.


WHEN you
the sun-burn'd pilgrim see,
Fainting with thirst, haste to the springs;
Mark how at first, with bended knee,

He courts the crystal nymph, and flings
His body to the earth, and he,
Prostrate adores the flowing deity.

But when his sweaty face is drench'd

In her cool waves, when from her sweet
Bosom his burning thirst is quench'd;

Then mark how, with disdainful feet,
He kicks her banks, and from the place
That thus refresh'd him, moves with sullen pace.

Thus shalt thou be despis'd, fair maid,

When by thy sated lover tasted;
What first he did with tears invade,

Shall afterwards in scorn be wasted;
When all thy virgin springs grow dry,
And no springs left, but in thine eye.


The three foregoing Pieces are by THOMAS CAREW, whose admirers were the first men of the age in which he lived. Lord Clarendon says, "Carew was a person of a pleasant and facetious

wit, whose poems, for the sharpness of the fancy, and elegance of the language in which that fancy was spread, were at least equal, if not superior, to any of that time." Born, 1580; died, 1639. His poems were published in 1772, by Davis.


YE happy swains, whose hearts are free
From love's imperial chain,

Take warning, and be taught by me
To avoid the enchanting pain;
Fatal the wolves to trembling flocks,

Fierce winds to blossoms prove,
To careless seamen, hidden rocks,
To human quiet, love.

Fly the fair sex, if bliss you prize,
The snake's beneath the flower;
Who ever gaz'd on beauteous eyes,
That tasted quiet more?

How faithless is the lover's joys!
How constant is their care!

The kind, with falsehood do destroy,
The cruel, with despair.

By SIR GEORGE ETHEREGE; this celebrated wit was born near London, 1634; author of three plays, and a volume of sprightly poetry. His accomplishments procured him the favour of James the Second's Queen, to whom he had dedicated his "Man of Mode." Report says that he came to an untimely end, by an accident which befel him at Ratisbon.

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