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ALEXANDER BROME.

BORN 1620.-DIED 1666.

ALEXANDER BROME was an attorney in the Lord Mayor's Court. From a verse in one of his poems, it would seem that he had been sent once in the civil war, (by compulsion no doubt,) on the parliament side, but had stayed only three days, and never fought against the king and the cavaliers. He was in truth a strenuous loyalist, and the bacchanalian songster of his party. Most of the song's and epigrams that were published against the Rump have been ascribed to him. He had besides a share in the translation of Horace, with Fanshaw, Holiday, Cowley, and others, and published a single comedy, the Cunning Lovers, which was acted in 1651, at the private house in Drury. There is a playful variety in his metre, that probably had a better effect in song than in reading. Baker in

forms us that he was the author of much the greater part of those songs and epigrams which were published against the Rump. Philips styles him the "English Anacreon."

ALEXANDER BROME.

THE RESOLVE.

TELL me not of a face that's fair,
Nor lip and cheek that's red,
Nor of the tresses of her hair,
Nor curls in order laid;
Nor of a rare seraphic voice,
That like an angel sings;
Though, if I were to take my choice,
I would have all these things.
But if that thou wilt have me love,
And it must be a she?

The only argument can move
Is, that she will love me.

The glories of your ladies be

But metaphors of things,
And but resemble what we see
Each common object brings.
Roses out-red their lips and cheeks,
Lilies their whiteness stain;

What fool is he that shadows seeks,
And may the substance gain!

Then if thou'lt have me love a lass,

Let it be one that's kind,

Else I'm a servant to the glass,
That's with Canary lin❜d.

THE COUNSEL.

WHY's my friend so melancholy?
Pr'ythee why so sad, why so sad?
Beauty's vain, and love's a folly,

Wealth and women make men mad.
To him that has a heart that's jolly,
Nothing's grievous, nothing's sad.

Come, cheer up, my lad.

Does thy mistress seem to fly thee?
Pr'ythee don't repine, don't repine :

If at first she does deny thee

Of her love, deny her thine;

She shows her coyness but to try thee,
And will triumph if thou pine,

Drown thy thoughts in wine.

Try again, and don't give over,

Ply her, she's thine own, she's thine own: Cowardice undoes a lover,

They are tyrants if you moan;

If nor thyself, nor love, can move her,
But she'll slight thee, and be gone :

Let her then alone.

If thy courtship can't invite her,
Nor to condescend, nor to bend,

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