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WILLIAM CARTWRIGHT.

TO CHLOE.

CHLOE! why wish you that your years
Would backward run, till they meet mine,
That perfect likeness, which endears
Things unto things, might us combine?

Our ages so in date agree,

That twins do differ more than we.

There are two births: the one, when light
First strikes the new awaken'd sense;
The other, when two souls unite,

And we must count our life from thence;
When you lov'd me, and I lov'd you,
Then both of us were born a-new.

Love then to us did new souls give,

And in these souls did plant new powers; Since when another life we live,

The breath we breathe, is his, not ours; Love makes those young, whom age doth chill, And whom he finds young, keeps young still.

Love like that angel that shall call
Our bodies from the silent grave;
Unto one age doth raise us all,

None too much, none too little have.
Nay, that the difference may be none,
He makes two not alike, but one.

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And now since you and I are such,

Tell me what's your's, and what is mine?
Our eyes, our ears, our taste, smell, touch,

Do like our souls in one combine:

So by this, I as well may be
To old for you, as you

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From Poems and Songs, by WILLIAM CARTWRIGHT, born 1611, died 1643. His poetry, says Campbell, in his specimens of the British Poets, may be ranked as the violet, humble but sweet of smell. Ben Johnson says of him, "My son Cartwright writes all like a man.' He was of Christ's College, Oxford. Became Proctor of the University, and Lecturer on metaphysics. He was cut off by fever, aged 32, and had the honour to be regarded by his sovereign and queen, who were in Oxford at the time of his death.

GO LOVELY ROSE.

Go lovely rose!

Tell her that wastes her time, and me,
That now she knows,

When I resemble her to thee,

How sweet and fair she seems to be.

Tell her that's young,
And shuns to have her graces spied,
That hadst thou sprung

In deserts, where no men abide,
Thou must have uncommended died.

WILLIAM STROUDE.

Small is the worth

Of beauty from the light retir'd;
Bid her come forth,

Suffer herself to be desir'd,

And not blush so to be admir'd.

Then die! that she

The common fate of all things rare
May read in thee:

How small a part of time they share,
That are so wondrous sweet and fair.

The author of this beautiful lyric was EDMUND WALLER, born 1605, died 1687. His poetical pieces are easy, smooth, and generally elegant; even the gruff and irascible Ritson esteems him the best song writer, as well as the best poet, of Charles I.'s time.

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IN COMMENDATION OF MUSIC.

WHEN whispering strains do softly steal
With creeping passion through the heart;
And when at every touch we feel

Our pulses beat, and bear a part:
When threats can make a heart-string quake,
Philosophy can scarce deny,

The soul consists of harmony.

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When unto heavenly joys we feign,

Whate'er the soul affecteth most;
Which only thus-we can explain
By music of the winged host,

Whose lays we think, make stars to wink:
Philosophy can scarce deny,
The soul consists of harmony.

O lull me, lull me, charming air,
My senses rock with wonder sweet!
Like snow on wool, thy fallings are

Soft, like a spirit are thy feet;
Grief, who need fear, that hath an ear?
Down let him lie, and slumbering die,
And change his soul for harmony.

The above Sonnet is the composition of WILLIAM STRODE, or STROUDE, taken from a small miscellany, called "Wit restored," 1658, 12mo. He was born, says Ellis, about 1600. Became D. D. and Canon of Christ Church, having served the office of Proctor and public Orator to the University; and had the reputation of being a good preacher, and exquisite speaker, and an eminent poet.

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THE DEW NO MORE SHALL WEEP.

THE dew no more shall weep,
The primrose's pale cheek to deck;
The dew no more shall sleep,

Nuzzled in the lily's neck:
Much rather would it tremble here,
And leave them both to be thy tear.

RICHARD LOVELACE.

Not the soft gold which

Steals from the amber weeping tree,
Makes sorrow half so rich,

As the drops distill'd from thee:
Sorrow's best jewels be in these
Caskets, of which Heaven keeps the keys.

When sorrow would be seen

In her bright majesty,

For she is a Queen!

Then is she dress'd by none but thee,
Then, and only then, she wears
Her richest pearls;-I mean thy tears.

Not in the evening's eye

When they red with weeping are;
For the sun that dies,

Sits sorrow with a face so fair:

No where but here doth meet,
Sweetness so sad, sadness so sweet.

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The above Song is by the REV. RICHARD CRAWSHAW, who died about 1650. His poetry, says Campbell, is full of tenderness and beauty, sentiment and imagery. His versification is melodious. Expressions delicate and luxurious. Works numerous, and chiefly upon religious subjects.

TO LUCASTA.

TELL me not, sweet, I am unkind,
That from the nunnery

Of thy chaste breast, and quiet mind,
To war and arms I fly.

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