TH

HOU robb'ft my days of business and delights,
Of fleep thou robb'st my nights;

Ah, lovely thief! what wilt thou do?
What? rob me of heaven too?

Thou ev'n my prayers dost steal from me;
And I, with wild idolatry,

Begin to God, and end them all to thee.

Is it a fin to love, that it fhould thus,
Like an ill confcience torture us?
Whate'er I do, where'er I go,
(None guiltless e'er was haunted fo!)
Still, ftill, methinks, thy face I view,
And still thy shape does me pursue,
As if, not you me, but I had murder'd you.

From books I ftrive fome remedy to take,
But thy name all the letters make;
Whate'er 'tis writ, I find That there,
Like points and comma's every where :
Me bleft for this let no man hold;
For I, as Midas did of old,
Perish by turning every thing to gold.

What do I feek, alas! or why do I
Attempt in vain from thee to fly?
For making thee my deity,

I gave

thee then ubiquity.
My pains resemble hell in this;

The divine prefence there too is,

But to torment men, not to give them blifs.

ALL

ALL OVER

LOVE.

IS well, 'tis well with them, fay I,

TIS

Whose short-liv'd paffions with themselves can

die:

For none can be unhappy, who,

'Midft all his ills, a time does know
(Though ne'er fo long) when he shall not be fo.

Whatever parts of me remain,
Those parts will still the love of thee retain;
For 'twas not only in my heart,

But, like a God, by powerful art

'Twas all in all, and all in every part.

My' affection no more perish can
Than the first matter that compounds a man.
Hereafter, if one duft of me

Mix'd with another's fubftance be,

'Twill leaven that whole lump with love of thee.

Let Nature, if she please, difperfe

My atoms over all the univerfe;

At the last they easily shall

Themselves know, and together call;

For thy love, like a mark, is stamp'd on all.

N

OW, fure, within this twelvemonth past,

I 'ave lov'd at least fome twenty years or more =
Th' account of Love runs much more faft

Than that with which our life does fcore;
So, though my life be fhort, yet I may prove
The great Methufalem of Love.

Not that Love's hours or minutes are
Shorter than thofe our being 's measur'd by ;
But they 're more close compacted far,
And fo in leffer room do lie:

Thin airy things extend themfelves in space,
Things folid take up little place.

Yet Love, alas! and Life, in me,
Are not two several things, but purely one;
At once how can there in it be

A double, different motion?

O yes, there may; for fo the felf-fame fun
At once does flow and swiftly run;

Swiftly his daily journey he goes,

But treads his annual with a statelier pace;
And does three hundred rounds enclofe

Within one yearly circle's fpace;

At once, with double course in the fame sphere,
He runs the day, and walks the year.

When

When Soul does to myself refer,

'Tis then my life, and does but flowly move; But when it does relate to her,

It swiftly flies, and then is Love. Love's my diurnal course, divided right

'Twixt hope and fear-my day and night.

THE BARGAIN.

TAKE heed, take heed, thou lovely maid,
Nor be by glittering ills betray'd;

Thyself for money! oh, let no man know
The price of beauty fall'n so low!

What dangers ought'ft thou not to dread, When Love, that 's blind, is by blind Fortune led?

The foolish Indian, that fells

His precious gold for beads and bells, Does a more wife and gainful traffick hold, Than thou, who fell'ft thyself for gold. What gains in fuch a bargain are ? He'll in thy mines dig better treasures far.

Can gold, alas! with thee compare ? The fun, that makes it, 's not fo fair; The fun, which can nor make nor ever fee A thing fo beautiful as thee,

In all the journeys he does pass,

Though the fea ferv'd him for a looking-glaf

Bold

Bold was the wretch that cheapen'd thee;
Since Magus, none fo bold as he :

Thou 'rt fo divine a thing, that thee to buy
Is to be counted fimony;

Too dear he 'll find his fordid price
Has forfeited that and the Benefice.

If it be lawful thee to buy,

There's none can pay that rate but I;
Nothing on earth a fitting price can be,

But what on earth 's most like to thee;
And that my heart does only bear;
For there thyself, thy very felf is there.

So much thyself does in me live,
That, when it for thyself I give,
'Tis but to change that piece of gold for this,
Whose stamp and value equal is;

And, that full weight too may be had,
My foul and body, two grains more, 1 'll add.

L

THE LONG LIFE.

OVE from Time's wings hath ftol'n the feathers, fure He has, and put them to his own ; For hours of late as long as days endure,

And very minutes hours are grown.

The various motions of the turning year

Belong not now at all to me:

Each fummer's night does Lucy's now appear,
Each winter's day St. Barnaby.

How