Seek thy salve while sore is green, Fester'd wounds ask deeper lancing; After-cures are seldom seen,

Often sought, scarce ever chancing : Time and place give best advice, Out of season, out of price.

PANGLORY'S WOOING SONG.

GILES FLETCHER, born 1588, died 1623.

LOVE is the blossom where there blows,
Every thing that lives or grows;
Love doth make the heavens to move,
And the sun doth burn in love:
Love, the strong and weak doth yoke,
And makes the ivy climb the oak,
Under whose shadows, lions wild,
Soften'd by love, grow tame and mild.
Love, no med'cine can appease;
He burns the fishes in the seas;

Not all the skill his wounds can stanch.
Not all the sea his thirst can quench.
Love did make the bloody spear
Once a leafy coat to wear,

While in his leaves there shrouded lay

Sweet birds, for love that sing and play; And of all love's joyful flame

I the bud and blossom am.

Only lend thy knee to me,

Thy wooing shall thy winning be!

See, see, the flowers that below

Now freshly as the morning blow,

And of all, the virgin rose,

That as bright Aurora shows;

How they all unleaved die

Losing their virginity:

Like unto a summer shade,

But now born, and now they fade,

Every thing doth pass away;

There is danger in delay.

THE COMMENDATION OF MUSIC.
WILLIAM STRODE, born 1600, died 1644.

WHEN Whispering strains do softly steal
With creeping passion through the heart,
And at every touch we feel

Our pulses beat, and bear a part;

When threads can make

A heart-string quake ;—
Philosophy

Can scarce deny,

The soul consists of harmony.

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

Soft like a spirit's are thy feet.

Grief, who need fear

That hath an ear?

Down let him lie,

And slumbering die,

And change his soul for harmony.

From a Miscellany, entitled "Wit Restored," 12mo. published 1658.

SWEET DAY, SO COOL.

GEORGE HERBERT, born 1593, died 1632.

SWEET Day, so cool, so calm, so bright,
The bridal of the earth and sky,

Sweet dews shall weep thy fall to-night,—
For thou must die!

Sweet Rose, whose hue, angry and brave,
Bids the rash gazer wipe his eye,

Thy root is ever in its grave,

And thou must die!

Sweet Spring, full of sweet days and roses,
A box where sweets compacted lie;
My music shows you have your closes,-

And all must die!

Only a sweet and virtuous soul,

Like season'd timber, never gives,

But when the whole world turns to coal,
Then chiefly lives!

TO ALTHEA, FROM PRISON.

RICHARD LOVELACE, born 1618, died 1658.

WHEN love with unconfined wings
Hovers within my gates,
And my divine Althea brings

To whisper at my grates;

When I lie tangled in her hair,

And fetter'd to her eye,

The birds that wanton in the air,
Know no such liberty.

When flowing cups run swiftly round,
With no allaying Thames,
Our careless heads with roses bound,
Our hearts with loyal flames;
When thirsty grief in wine we steep,

When healths and draughts are free,~

Fishes that tipple in the deep,

Know no such liberty.

When linnet-like, confined, I
With shriller throat shall sing
The sweetness, mercy, majesty,
And glories of my king:

When I shall voice aloud how good
He is, how great should be,—
Enlarged winds that curl the flood,
Know no such liberty.

Stone walls do not a prison make,
Nor iron bars a cage;
Minds innocent and quiet take
That for a hermitage :

If I have freedom in my love,
And in my soul am free,—

Angels alone, that soar above,
Enjoy such liberty.

This song to Althea will live as long as the English language.-ROBERT SOUTHEY.

HOPE.

From ALISON's "Hour's Recreations in Music," 1606.

IN hope a king doth go to war;

In hope a lover lives full long;

In hope a merchant sails full far;

In hope just men do suffer wrong ;
In hope the ploughman sows his seed:
Thus hope helps thousands at their need.
Then faint not, heart, among the rest;
Whatever chance, hope thou the best.

Or like the sun, or like the shade,
Or like the gourd which Jonas had.
E'en such is man ;-whose thread is spun,
Drawn out, and cut, and so is done.-
The rose withers, the blossom blasteth,
The flower fades, the morning hasteth,
The sun sets, the shadow flies,
The gourd consumes,—and man he dies!

Like to the grass that 's newly sprung,
Or like a tale that's new begun,
Or like the bird that's here to-day,
Or like the pearled dew of May,
Or like an hour, or like a span,
Or like the singing of a swan.

E'en such is man ;-who lives by breath,
Is here, now there, in life and death.-
The grass withers, the tale is ended,
The bird is flown, the dew's ascended,
The hour is short, the span is long,
The swan's near death,-man's life is done!

HASTE THEE, NYMPH.

JOHN MILTON.

HASTE thee, Nymph, and bring with thee
Jest and youthful Jollity;

Quips, and cranks, and wanton wiles,

Nods, and becks, and wreathed smiles,

Such as hang on Hebe's cheek,

And love to live in dimple sleek;

Sport that wrinkled Care derides,

And Laughter holding both his sides.

Ha ha ha! ha!

The music of this song was composed by Handel for the Oratorio of "Comus," and

pted to this purpose from the beautiful poem of "L'Allegro."