SONG OF A SCHOLAR AND HIS And the better the sooner begun.

For all the winds are hush'd, and the storm is I LOOK'D and saw within the book of fate, overblown.

Let me go, let me run, let me fly to his arms. Leap'd up, and smil'd to save the sinking

"T is such a pleasing smart, and I so love it,
That I had rather die than once remove it.
Yet he for whom I grieve shall never know it;
My tongue does not betray, nor my eyes show
Not a sigh, nor a tear, my pain discloses, [it.
But they fall silently, like dew on roses.
Thus, to prevent my love from being cruel,
My heart's the sacrifice, as 't is the fuel:
And while I suffer this to give him quiet,
My faith rewards my love, though he deny it.

To give o'er, and betimes to despair. HE. I have tried the false med'cine in vain ; For I wish what I hope not to win: From without, my desire

On his eyes will I gaze, and there delight me;
Where I conceal my love no frown can fright
To be more happy, I dare not aspire; [me SHE.
Nor can I fall more low, mounting no higher.

WHEREVER I am, and whatever I do,
My Phyllis is still in my mind;
When angry,
I mean not to Phyllis to go,
My feet of themselves, the way find:
Unknown to myself I am just at her door,
And, when I would rail, I can bring out no
Than, Phyllis too fair and unkind! [more,
When Phyllis I see, my heart bounds in my
And the love I would stifle is shown; [breast,
But asleep, or awake, I am never at rest,

When from my eyes Phyllis is gone. [mind;
Sometimes a sad dream does delude my sad
But, alas! when I wake, and no Phyllis I find,
How I sigh to myself all alone!

Should a king be my rival in her I adore,
He should offer his treasure in vain :
O, let me alone to be happy and poor,
And give me my Phyllis again!

Let Phyllis be mine, and but ever be kind,
I could to a desert with her be confin'd,
And envy no monarch his reign.
Alas! I discover too much of my love,
And she too well knows her own power![prove,
She makes me each day a new martyrdom
And makes me grow jealous each hour:
But let her each minute torment my poor mind,
I had rather love Phyllis, both false and unkind,
Than ever be freed from her power.

II.

HE. How unhappy a lover am I,

While I sigh for my Phyllis in vain ;

Has no food to its fire;

Yet, at least, 't is a pleasure to know That you are not unhappy alone: For the nymph you adore

But it burns and consumes me within.

Is as wretched, and more;

And counts all your sufferings her owr

HE. O ye gods, let me suffer for both;
At the feet of my Phyllis I'll lie :
I'll resign up my breath,
And take pleasure in death,

To be pitied by her when I die.
SHE. What her honour denied you in life,
In her death she will give to your
Such a flame as is true
After fate will renew,

[love.

For the souls to meet closer above.

SONG OF THE SEA-FIGHT, IN
AMBOYNA.

WHO ever saw a noble sight,
That never view'd a brave sea-fight!
Hang up your bloody colours in the air
Up with your fights, and your nettings prepare;
Your merry mates cheer, with a lusty bold

spright,
[fight.
Now each man his brindice, and then to the
St. George, St. George, we cry,

The shouting Turks reply

Ply it with culverin and with small shot; [roar,
Oh now it begins, and the gun-room grows hot,
Hark, does it not thunder? no, 't is the guns
Now each man must resolve to die,
The neighbouring billows are turn'd into gore ;
For here the coward cannot fly.
Drums and trumpets toll the knell,
And culverins the passing bell. [amain,
Now, now they grapple, and now board
Blow
up the hatches, they're off all again :
Give them a broadside, the dice run at all,
Down comes the mast and yard, and tacklings

fall;

ALL PR. 'T is done.

TIR. Is the sacrifice made fit?
Draw her backward to the pit:
Draw the barren heifer back;
Barren let her be, and black.
Cut the curl'd hair that grows
Full betwixt her horns and brows:
And turn your faces from the sun,
Answer me, if this be done?

ALL PR. 'T is done.

TIR. Pour in blood, and blood-like wine,
To Mother Earth and Proserpine:
Mingle milk into the stream;
Feast the ghosts that love the steam:
Snatch a brand from funeral pile:
Toss it in, to make them boil;
And turn your faces from the sun,
Answer me, if this be done?
ALL PR. "T is done.

ALBION, lov'd of gods and men,
Prince of Peace too mildly reigning,
Cease thy sorrow and complaining,
Thou shalt be restor❜d again :
Albion, lov'd of gods and men.

Still thou art the care of heaven,
In thy youth to exile driven :
Heaven thy ruin then prevented,
Till the guilty land repented:

In thy age, when none could aid thee,
Foes conspir'd, and friends betray'd theo.
To the brink of danger driven,

SONGS IN ALBION AND ALBANIUS. Still thou art the care of heaven.

WHAT state of life can be so blest
As love, that warms a lover's breast?
Two souls in one, the same desire
To grant the bliss, and to require!
But if in heaven a hell we find,
'T is all from thee,

Whose breath has ruffled all the watery plain O Jealousy!

Retire, and let Britannia rise,

"T is all from thee,

O Jealousy!

Thou tyrant, tyrant Jealousy,
Thou tyrant of the mind!