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True, a new mistress now I chase,
The first foe in the field;
And with a stronger faith embrace,
A sword, a horse, a shield.

Yet this inconstancy is such,
As you too shall adore;

I could not love thee, dear, so much,
Loved I not honour more.


THOU Snowy farm, with thy five tenements,
Tell thy white mistress here was one
That call'd to pay his daily rents;

But she a-gathering flowers and hearts is gone, And thou left void to rude possession.

But grieve not pretty ermine cabinet,
Thy alabaster lady will come home:
If not, what tenant can they fit

The slender turnings of thy narrow room,
But must ejected be, by his own doom.

Then give me leave, to leave my rent with thee,
Five kisses, one unto each place;
For though the lute's too high for me,

Yet servants knowing minikin nor base,
Are still allow'd to fiddle with the case.

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The three foregoing Songs are by Colonel RICHARD LOVELACE, born 1618. Exquisitely beautiful in his person, with a mind elegantly and classically endowed, he was one of the gayest and sprightliest courtiers of Charles I.'s reign. His own calamities followed those of the party to which he belonged-imprisoned and blighted in all his fortunes, brought on a state of despairing wretchedness, which ended in a fatal consumption, and terminated his life in a garret, 1658.

Colonel Lovelace's unfortunate demise is doubted, as given by Anthony Wood in the second volume of his Athenæ; and some say that his estates were not forfeited, but descended to the family; yet Edward Wyld confirms Wood's assertions, and writes that he died poor, and in a cellar.

His poems are chaste, classical, imaginative, and beautiful: they were published in 8vo. in 1649, and again in 1659.


DARE ye hunt our hallow'd green?
None but fairies here are seen:
Down and sleep, wail and weep,
Pinch him black, and pinch him blue,
That seeks to steal a lover true.

When ye come to hear us sing,
Or to tread our fairy ring,
Pinch him black, and pinch him blue,
Thus our nails shall handle you.

A wild hunting chorus, meant to represent the starting of a chase, is attached to the above; nearly unintelligible however, unless accompanied by its music, which has been arranged for four voices by Byrd, and entered by him into Queen Elizabeth's Virginal, and also into the Lady Nevil's Music-book, who appears to have been Byrd's pupil. This curious relict, with accompaniments, apparently adapted for the horn, is engrossed into our old M. S. collection of airs, alluded to in page 48. This M. S. volume, we may mention, in passing, contains 158 song tunes in parts, independent of sacred music; while the airs of several songs contained in this section, are to be found here, pricked down with great care, in the square or lozenge note, having the first line of each chant generally appended to its corresponding music. No date is attached to the M. S. but the latest tune in the volume is above two hundred years old.


go to my love, where he lies in the deep,
And in my embraces my dearest shall sleep:


When we wake, the kind dolphins together shall throng,
And in chariots of shells shall draw us along:

Ah! ah! my love's dead! there was not a bell,
But a Triton's shell,

To ring, to ring, out his knell.

The orient pearl which the ocean bestows,
With coral we'll mix, and a crown so compose;

The sea-nymphs shall sigh, and envy our bliss,

We will teach them to laugh, and their cockles to kiss: Ah! ah! my love's dead!



love sleeps now in a watery grave,

He hath nothing to show for his tomb but a wave;
I'll kiss his cold lips, not the coral more red,

That grows where he lies in his watery bed:
Ah! ah! my love's dead!


From Tixhall Poetry, published 1813, by EDWARD CLIFFORD, Esq. For a curious and interesting account of these ancient M.SS. see Drake's "Evenings in Autumn."


CANST thou, Marina, leave the world,
The world that is devotion's bane,
Where crowns are toss'd, and sceptres hurl'd,
Where lust and proud ambition reign?
Canst thou thy costly robes forbear,
To live with us in poor attire;
Canst thou from courts to cells repair,
To sing at midnight in the quire?

Canst thou forget the golden bed,

Where thou might'st sleep beyond the morn,
On mats to lay thy royal head,

And have thy beauteous tresses shorn?
Canst thou resolve to fast all day,

And weep and groan to be forgiven;
Canst thou in broken slumbers pray,
And by afflictions merit heaven?

Say Voterisse, can this be done?

Whilst we the grace divine implore;
The world shall lose the battles won,

And sin shall never chain thee more.
The gate to bliss doth open stand,

And all my penance is in view;
The world, upon the other hand,

Cries out, "O do not bid adieu!"

What, what can pomp and glory do;

Or what can human powers persuade;
That mind that hath a heaven in view,

How can it be by earth betray'd?
Haste then, oh! haste, to take me in,

For ever lock Religion's door;
Secure me from the charms of sin,

And let me see the world no more.

This beautiful poem of the Royal Nun, says Dr. Drake, is from a M.S. dated 1662; but in all probability it is several years older. Who was its author, is not known. It evidently bears a strong resemblance to Dr. Percy's popular song, "O Nannie wilt thou gang wi' me."

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