Then, since we mortal lovers are,
Ask not how long our love will last;
But, while it does, let us take care

Each minute be with pleasure past.
Were it not madness to deny
To live, because we're sure to die?

Fear not, though love and beauty fail,
My reason shall my heart direct:
Your kindness now shall then prevail,
And passion turn into respect.
Celia, at worst, you'll in the end

But change a lover for a friend.

LXXI.

Sir George Etherege.

OF ENGLISH VERSE.

POETS may boast, as safely vain,

Their works shall with the world remain;
Both bound together, live or die,

The verses and the prophecy.

But who can hope his line should long
Last in a daily changing tongue?
While they are new, envy prevails;
And, as that dies, our language fails.

When architects have done their part,
The matter may betray their art:
Time, if we use ill-chosen stone,
Soon brings a well-built palace down.

Poets, that lasting marble seek,
Must carve in Latin or in Greek:
We write in sand: our language grows,
And, like the tide, our work o'erflows.
Chaucer his sense can only boast,-
The glory of his numbers lost!

Years have defaced his matchless strain,-
And yet he did not sing in vain!

The beauties which adorn'd that age,
The shining subjects of his page,
Hoping they should immortal prove,
Rewarded with success his love.

This was the generous poet's scope;
And all an English pen can hope;
To make the fair approve his flame,
That can so far extend their name.

Verse, thus design'd, has no ill fate,
If it arrive but at the date

Of fading beauty; if it prove

But as long-lived as present love.

Edmund Waller.

LXXII.

THE STORY OF PHOEBUS AND DAPHNE APPLIED.

THYRSIS, a youth of the inspired train,
Fair Sacharissa loved, but loved in vain :
Like Phoebus sung the no less amorous boy;
Like Daphne she, as lovely, and as coy!
With numbers he the flying nymph pursues;
With numbers, such as Phoebus' self might use !
Such is the chase, when Love and Fancy leads,
O'er craggy mountains, and thio' flowery meads;
Invoked to testify the lover's care,

Or form some image of his cruel fair.
Urged with his fury, like a wounded deer,
O'er these he fled; and now approaching near,
Had reach'd the nymph with his harmonious lay,
Whom all his charms could not incline to stay.
Yet, what he sung in his immortal strain,
Though unsuccessful, was not sung in vain :
All, but the nymph who should redress his wrong,
Attend his passion, and approve his song,
Like Phoebus thus, acquiring unsought praise,
He catch'd at love, and fill'd his arms with bays.

Edmund Waller.

LXXIII.

PHILLIS, for shame! let us improve,
A thousand different ways,

These few short moments snatch'd by love
From many tedious days.

If you want courage to despise
The censure of the grave,
Tho' Love's a tyrant in your eyes,
Your heart is but a slave.

My love is full of noble pride;
Nor can it e'er submit

To let that fop, Discretion, ride
In triumph over it.

False friends I have, as well as you,

Who daily counsel me

Fame and Ambition to pursue,

And leave off loving thee.

But when the least regard I show

To fools who thus advise,

May I be dull enough to grow

Most miserably wise!

Charles Sackville, Earl of Dorset.

LXXIV.

TO CHLORIS SINGING A SONG OF HIS COMPOSING.

CHLORIS! yourself you so excel,

When you vouchsafe to breathe my thought, That, like a spirit, with this spell

Of my own teaching, I am caught.

That eagle's fate and mine are one,

Which, on the shaft that made him die,

Espied a feather of his own,

Wherewith he wont to soar so high.

Had Echo, with so sweet a grace,
Narcissus' loud complaints return'd,

Not for reflection of his face,

But of his voice, the boy had burn'd.

Edmund Waller.

LXXV.

DORINDA'S sparkling wit and eyes
United, cast too fierce a light,
Which blazes high, but quickly dies;
Pains not the heart, but hurts the sight.

Love is a calmer, gentler joy:

Smooth are his looks, and soft his pace;
Her Cupid is a blackguard boy,

That runs his link full in your face.

Charles Sackville, Earl of Dorset.

LXXVI.

WRITTEN AT SEA, THE FIRST DUTCH WAR THE NIGHT BEFORE AN ENGAGEMENT.

To all you ladies now on land,
We men at sea indite;

But first would have you understand
How hard it is to write:

The muses now, and Neptune too,

We must implore to write to you.
With a fa la, la, la, la.

For tho' the muses should prove kind,
And fill our empty brain;

Yet if rough Neptune rouse the wind,
To wave the azure main,

Our paper, pen, and ink, and we
Roll up and down our ships at sea.

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.

The king with wonder and surprise,
Will swear the seas grow bold;

E

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.

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?

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 foc.

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.

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

Perhaps permit some happier man
To kiss your hand, or flirt your fan.

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'd.

In justice, you cannot refuse

To think of our distress,

When we for hopes of honour lose
Our certain happiness;

All these designs are but to prove
Ourselves more worthy of your love.