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songs were never written than these wild and irregular ditties. Here are some of them.

HYMN TO DIANA, IN “CYNTHIA'S REVELS."

Queen and huntress, chaste and fair,

Now the sun is laid to sleep,
Seated in thy silver car,
State in wonted manner keep.

Hesperus entreats thy light,
Goddess excellently bright!

Earth, let not thy envious shade

Dare itself to interpose ;
Cynthia's shining orb was made
Heaven to clear, when day did close.

Bless us then with wished sight,
Goddess excellently bright!

Lay thy bow of pearl apart,

And thy crystal shining quiver ;
Give unto the flying hart
Space to breathe, how short soever.

Thou that mak'st a day of night,
Goddess excellently bright!

SONG, FROM THE SAME.

Slow, slow fresh fount, keep time with my salt tears,

Yet slower, yet, О faintly, gentle springs !
List to the heavy part the music bears,

Woe weeps out her division when she sings.

Droop herbs and flowers,
Fall grief in showers,
Our beauties are not our's.

O I could still
(Like melting snow upon some craggy hill)

Drop, drop, drop, drop,
Since summer's pride is now a withered daffodil.

THE VISION OF

SONG OF NIGHT, IN THE MASQUE OF

DELIGHT.”

Break, Phantasie, from thy cave of cloud,

And spread thy purple wings;
Now all thy figures are allowed,

And various shapes of things.
Create of airy forms a stream,
It must have blood, and nought of phlegm;
And though it be a waking dream,
Chorus. Yet let it like an odour rise

To all the senses here,
And fall like sleep upon their eyes,

Or music in their ear.

CHORUS, FROM THE SAME.

In curious knots and mazes so,
The spring at first was taught to go;
And Zephyr, when he came to woo
His Flora, had their motions too :
And thus did Venus learn to lead

The Idalian brawls, and so to tread
As if the wind, not she, did walk,
Nor prest a flower, nor bowed a stalk.

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So Beauty on the waters stood
When Love had severed Earth from Flood!
So, when he parted Air from Fire,
He did with concord all inspire !
And then a motion he them taught
That elder than himself was thought;
Which thought was yet the child of earth,
For Love is elder than his birth.

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Still to be neat, still to be drest
As you were going to a feast;
Still to be powdered, still perfumed:
Lady, it is to be presumed,
Though art's hid causes are not found,
All is not sweet, all is not sound.

Give me a look, give me a face
That makes simplicity a grace ;
Robes loosely flowing, hair as free:
Such sweet neglect more taketh me,
Than all the adulteries of art;
They strike mine eyes, but not my heart.

FROM A CELEBRATION OF CHARIS.

See the chariot at hand here of Love,

Wherein my lady rideth;
Each that draws is a swan or a dove,

And well the car Love guideth.

As she goes all hearts do duty

Unto her beauty, And enamoured do wish that they might

But enjoy such a sight, That they still were to run by her side Thorough swords, thorough seas wheresoever she would ride.

Do but look on her eyes, they do light

All that loves world compriseth !
Do but look on her hair, it is bright

As love's star, when it riseth!
Do but mark, her forehead's smoother

Than words that soothe her!
And from her arched brows such a grace

Sheds itself through the face,
As alone there triumphs to the life
All the gain, all the good, of the elements' strife!

Have you seen but a bright lily grow

Before rude hands have touched it ? Have

you

marked but the fall o' the snow Before the soil hath smutched it ? Ha' you felt the wool of the beaver,

Or swan's down ever ?
Or have smelt o' the bud o' the briar !

Or the nard in the fire ?
Or have tasted the bag of the bee ?
O so white! O so soft! O so sweet is she!

SONG.

Oh! do not worship with those eyes,

Lest I be sick with seeing !
Nor cast them down, but let them rise,

Lest shame destroy their being.

Oh! be not angry with those fires

For then their threats will kill me;
Nor look too kind on my desires,

For then my hopes will spill me.
Oh! do not steep them in thy tears,

For so will sorrow slay me;
Nor spread them, as distract with fears,

Mine own enough betray me.

SONG TO CELIA.

I should hardly perbaps have thought of inserting a song so familiar to every ear as the following, had I not, in turning over Jonson's huge volume, been reminded of a circumstance connected with it which greatly startled me at the moment. Milton talks of airs “married to immortal verse;" but it should seem that there is no marriage without an occasional divorce; for the last time I heard the well-known melody which belongs to this fine Anacreontic, as indissolubly as its own peculiar perfume to a flower, was in an Independent Chapel, where widely different words—the words of a hymn-were adapted to the air. It was John Wesley, I believe, who said that he saw no reason why Satan should have all the best tunes ; and I should not lightly. impugn the wisdom of any axiom of John Wesley, who understood human nature as well as most men. But in this instance, such is the force of association, that I can scarcely say how strongly I felt the dis

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