Then if we write not by each post,
Think not we are unkind;

Nor yet conclude our ships are lost
By Dutchmen or by wind:

Our tears we'll send a speedier way,
The tide shall bring them twice a day----
With a fa, la, la, la, la.

The King with wonder and surprise
Will swear the seas grow bold,
Because the tides will higher rise
Than e'er they did of old:
But let him know it is our tears
Bring floods of grief to Whitehall stairs-
With a fa, la, la, la, la.

Should foggy Opdam chance to know
Our sad and dismal story,

The Dutch would scorn so weak a foe,

And quit their fort at Goree:

For what resistance can they find

From men who've left their hearts behind?

With a fa, la, la, la, la.

Let wind and weather do its worst,

Be you to us but kind;

Let Dutchmen vapour, Spaniards curse,

No sorrow we shall find:

"Tis then no matter how things go,

Or who's our friend, or who's our foe-
With fa, la, la, la, la.

To pass our tedious hours away
We throw a merry main,
Or else at serious ombre play;
But why should we in vain

Each other's ruin thus pursue ?
We were undone when we left you—
With a fa, la, la, la, la.

But now our fears tempestuous grow
And cast our hopes away;
Whilst you, regardless of our woe,
Sit careless at a play:

Perhaps permit some happier man
To kiss your hand, or flirt your fan-
With a fa, la, la, la, la.

When any mournful tune you hear,
That dies in every note

As if it sigh'd with each man's care

For being so remote,

Think then how often love we've made

To you, when all those tunes were play'dWith a fa, la, la, la, la.

In justice you cannot refuse

To think of our distress,

When we for hopes of honour lose

Our certain happiness:

All those designs are but to prove

Ourselves more worthy of your

With a fa, la, la, la, la.

love

And now we've told you all our loves,
And likewise all our fears,

In hopes this declaration moves
Some pity for our tears:

Let's hear of no inconstancy

We have too much of that at sea-
With a fa, la, la, la, la.

409.

410.

To Chloris

AH, Chloris! that I now could sit

As unconcern'd as when

Your infant beauty could beget

No pleasure, nor no pain!
When I the dawn used to admire,
And praised the coming day,
I little thought the growing fire
Must take my rest away.

Your charms in harmless childhood lay
Like metals in the mine;
Age from no face took more away
Than youth conceal'd in thine.
But as your charms insensibly
To their perfection prest,
Fond love as unperceived did fly,
And in my bosom rest.

My passion with your beauty grew,
And Cupid at my heart,
Still as his mother favour'd you,
Threw a new flaming dart:
Each gloried in their wanton part;

To make a lover, he

Employ'd the utmost of his art—
To make a beauty, she.

To Celia

NOT, Celia, that I juster am

Or better than the rest!

1639-1701

For I would change each hour, like them,
Were not my heart at rest.

411.

But I am tied to very thee
By every thought I have;
Thy face I only care to see,
Thy heart I only crave.

All that in woman is adored
In thy dear self I find-
For the whole sex can but afford
The handsome and the kind.

Why then should I seek further store,
And still make love anew?

When change itself can give no more,
'Tis easy to be true!

APHRA BEHN

Song

1640-1689

LOVE in fantastic triumph sate

Whilst bleeding hearts around him flow'd,

For whom fresh pains he did create

And strange tyrannic power he show'd:
From thy bright eyes he took his fires,
Which round about in sport he hurl'd;
But 'twas from mine he took desires

Enough t' undo the amorous world.
From me he took his sighs and tears,
From thee his pride and cruelty;
From me his languishments and fears,
And every killing dart from thee.
Thus thou and I the god have arm'd
And set him up a deity;

But my poor heart alone is harm'd,
Whilst thine the victor is, and free!

A THOUSAND martyrs I have made,

All sacrificed to my desire,

A thousand beauties have betray'd

That languish in resistless fire:
The untamed heart to hand I brought,
And fix'd the wild and wand'ring thought.

I never vow'd nor sigh'd in vain,

But both, tho' false, were well received;
The fair are pleased to give us pain,

And what they wish is soon believed:
And tho' I talk'd of wounds and smart,
Love's pleasures only touch'd my heart.

Alone the glory and the spoil

I always laughing bore away;
The triumphs without pain or toil,
Without the hell the heaven of joy ;
And while I thus at random rove
Despise the fools that whine for love.

JOHN WILMOT, EARL OF ROCHESTER

413.

2246

Return

ABSENT from thee, I languish still;

Then ask me not, When I return?

The straying fool 'twill plainly kill
To wish all day, all night to mourn.

R

1647-1680

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