Thy face is to my humour made,

Another it may fright;
Perhaps, by some fond whim betray'd,

In oddness I delight.

Vain youth, to your confusion, know

'Tis to my love's excess You all your fancied beauties owe,

Which fade as that grows Jess,

For your own sake, if not for mine,

You should preserve my fire,
Since you, my swain, no more will shing,

When I no more admire.

By me indeed you are allow'd

The wonder of your kind;
But be not of my judgement proud,
Whom love has render'd blind.

A. PHILLIPS.

My love was fickle once and changing,

Nor e'er would settle in my heart, From beauty still to beauty ranging,

In every face I found a dart.

’T was

'T was first a charming shape enslaved me,
Ao
eye

then gave the fatal stroke ; ;-)
Till by her wit CORINNA saved me, 12043

And all my former fetters broke

But now a long and lasting anguish

For BELVIDERA I endure;
Hourly I sigh, and hourly languish,

Nor hope to find the wonted cure.

For here the false inconstant lover,

After a thousand beauties shown,
Does new surprising charms discover,

And finds variety in one. *

Wuile silently I loved, nor dared : 20

To tell my crime aloudy.
The influence of your smiles I shared

In common with the crowd.

isih * This song is given in one of Addison's Spectators (No. 470), as the subject of a humorous commentary in ridicule of

mentioned. the verbal critics. Its author is not

But

Bat when I once my flame exprest,
In hopes to ease my pain,

1363, SP You singled me from out the rest,

The mark of your disdain. sily

If thus, CORINNA, you shall frownies

On all that do adore,
Then all mankind must be undone,

Or you must smile no more.

SHALL I, wasting in despair,
Die because a woman's fair ?
Or make pale my cheeks with care,
'Cause another's rosy are?
Be she fairer than the day,
Or the flowery meads in May,

If she be pot so to me,
What care I how fair she be!

Should my heart be grieved or pined
'Cause 1 see a woman kind?
Or a well disposed nature
Joined with a lovely feature?

Be

Be she meeker, kinder, than
Turtle dove or pelican,

If she be not so to me,
What care I how kind she be!

Shall a woman's virtues move
Me to perish for her love?
Or, her well-deservings known,
Make me quite forget my own?
Be she with that goodness blest
Which may gain her name of Best,

If she be not such to me,
What care I how good she be !

'Cause her fortune seems too high,
Shall I play the fool and die ?
Those that bear a noble mind,
Where they want of riches find,
Think what with them they would do
That without them dare to woo;

And, unless that mind I see,
What care I though great she be!

Great, or good, or kind, or fair,
I will ne'er the more despair:
If she love me, this believe,
I will die ere she shall griere:

If she slight me when I woo,
I can scorn and let her go:

For, if she be not for me,
What care I for m she be ?*

G. WITHER.

I do confess thou’rt smooth and fair,
And I might have been brought to love thee;
But that I found the stightest prayer
That breath could make, had power to move thee;
But I can leave thee now alone,
As worthy to be loved by none.

I do confess thou 'rt sweet, but find
Thee such an unthrift of thy sweets,
Thy favours are but like the wind
That kisseth every thing it meets.
Then, since thou canst with more than one,
Thou 'rt worthy to be kiss'd by none.

*A dull and tedious writer on grave subjects will sometimes sport happily with a lighter topic. This was the case with Wither, a poet

of the earlier part of the 17th century, who, after writing some pleasing juvenile pieces, became almost proverbial for dull prolixity.

The