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To purge the mischiefes, that increase
And all good order mar:
For oft we see a wicked peace.
To be well chang'd for war.

Well, well, Ulysses, then I see
I shall not have thee here;
And therefore I will come to thee,
And take my fortune there.
I must be wonne that cannot win,
Yet lost were I not wonne:
For beauty hath created bin
T'undoo or be undone.


Cupid's Pastime.

THIS beautiful poem, which possesses a classical elegance hardly to be expected in the age of James I., is printed from the fourth edition of Davison's Poems1, &c. 1621. It is also found in a later miscellany, entitled Le Prince & Amour, ̧ 1660, 8vo. Francis Davison, editor of the poems above referred to, was son of that unfortunate secretary of state, who suffered so much from the affair of Mary Queen of Scots. These poems, he tells us in his preface, were written by himself, by his brother [Walter], who was a soldier in the wars of the Low Countries, and by some dear friends "anonymoi." Among them are found some pieces by Sir J. Davis, the Countess of Pembroke, Sir Philip Sidney, Spenser, and other wits of those times.

In the fourth volume of Dryden's Miscellanies, this poem is attributed to Sidney Godolphin, Esq., but erroneously, being probably written before he was born. One edition of Davison's book was published in 1608. Godolphin was born in 1610, and died in 1642-3.-Ath. Ox. ii. 23.

1 See the full title in vol. ii. book iii. no. iv (p. 251).

Ir chanc'd of late a shepherd swain,

That went to seek his straying sheep, Within a thicket on a plain

Espied a dainty nymph asleep.

Her golden hair o'erspred her face;

Her careless arms abroad were cast;
Her quiver had her pillows place;
Her breast lay bare to every blast.


The shepherd stood and gaz'd his fill;
Nought durst he do; nought durst he say;


Whilst chance, or else perhaps his will,

Did guide the god of love that way.

The crafty boy thus sees her sleep,

Whom if she wak'd he durst not see; Behind her closely seeks to creep,

Before her nap should ended bee.

There come, he steals her shafts away,
And puts his own into their place;
Nor dares he any longer stay,

But, ere she wakes, hies thence apace.

Scarce was he gone, but she awakes,
And spies the shepherd standing by:
Her bended bow in haste she takes,
And at the simple swain lets flye.

Forth flew the shaft, and pierc'd his heart,
That to the ground he fell with pain:

Yet up again forthwith he start,
And to the nymph he ran amain.

Amazed to see so strange a sight,

She shot, and shot, but all in vain;
The more his wounds, the more his might,
Love yielded strength amidst his pain.

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Her angry eyes were great with tears.

She blames her hand, she blames her skil;
The bluntness of her shafts she fears,

And try them on herself she will.

Take heed, sweet nymph, trye not thy shat,
Each little touch will pierce thy heart:
Alas! thou know'st not Cupids craft;
Revenge is joy: the end is smart.

Yet try she will, and pierce some bare;
Her hands were glov'd, but next to hand
Was that fair breast, that breast so rare,

That made the shepherd senseless stand.

That breast she pierc'd; and through that breast
Love found an entry to her heart;

At feeling of this new-come guest,

Lord! how this gentle nymph did start!

She runs not now; she shoots no more;
Away she throws both shaft and bow:
She seeks for what she shunn'd before,

She thinks the shepherds haste too slow.

Though mountains meet not, lovers may:
What other lovers do, did they:
The god of love sate on a tree,
And laught that pleasant sight to see.


The Character of a Happy Life.

THIS little moral poem was writ by Sir Henry Wotton, who died Provost of Eton, in 1639. Æt. 72. It is printed from a little collection of his pieces, entitled Reliquia Wottonianæ, 1651, 12mo., compared with one or two other copies.



How happy is he born or taught,
That serveth not anothers will;
Whose armour is his honest thought,
And simple truth his highest skill:

Whose passions not his masters are;
Whose soul is still prepar'd for death;
Not ty'd unto the world with care
or vulgar breath:

Of princes ear,

Who hath his life from rumours freed;
Whose conscience is his strong retreat;
Whose state can neither flatterers feed,
Nor ruine make oppressors great:



Who envies none whom chance doth raise,
Or vice: Who never understood
How deepest wounds are given with praise;
Nor rules of state, but rules of good:


Who God doth late and early pray

More of his grace than gifts to lend;
And entertaines the harmless day
With a well-chosen book or friend.

This man is freed from servile bands
Of hope to rise, or feare to fall;
Lord of himselfe, though not of lands;
And having nothing, yet hath all.




WAS a famous robber, who lived about the middle of the last century, if we may credit the histories and story-books of highwaymen, which relate many improbable feats of him, as his robbing Cardinal Richelieu, Oliver Cromwell, &c. But

these stories have probably no other authority than the r cords of Grub-street; at least the Gilderoy, who is the her of Scottish songsters, seems to have lived in an earlier age for, in Thompson's Orpheus Caledonius, vol. ii. 1733, 8vo. is copy of this ballad, which, though corrupt and interpolated contains some lines that appear to be of genuine antiquity: in these he is represented as contemporary with Mary Queen of Scots: ex. gr.

"The Queen of Scots possessed nought.

That my love let me want:

For cow and ew to me he brought

And ein whan they were scant."

These lines, perhaps, might safely have been inserted among the following stanzas, which are given from a written copy, that seems to have received some modern corrections. Indeed the common popular ballad contained some indecent luxuriances that required the pruning-hook.

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