TO THE MOMENT LAST PAST.

O WHITHER dost thou flie? cannot my vow
Intreat thee tarry? Thou wert here but now,

And thou art gone: like ships which plough the sea,
And leave no print for man to tracke their way.

O, unseene wealth! who thee did husband, can
Outvie the jewels of the ocean,

The mines of the earth! One sigh well spent in thee,
Had beene a purchase for eternity!

We will not lose thee then.

Castara, where Shall we find out his hidden sepulchre?

And we'll revive him. Not the cruel stealth
of fate shall rob us of so great a wealth:

Undone in thrift! while we besought his stay,
Ten of his fellow moments fled away.

TO CASTARA, ON THE KNOWLEDGE OF LOVE.

WHERE sleepes the northe wind when the south inspires
Life in the Spring, and gathers into quires

The scattered nightingales? Whose subtle ears
Hearde first the harmonious language of the spheres?
Whence hath the stone magnetic force t' allure
The enamoured iron? From a seede impure,
Or natural, did first the mandrake grow ?
What power in the ocean makes it flow?
What strange material is the azure sky
Compacted of? of what its brightest eye,
The ever-flaming sunne? What people are

In th' unknown world? what worlds in every star?—
Let curious fancies at these secrets rove:

Castara, what we know we'll practise,-Love.

HIS MUSE SPEAKS TO HIM.

THY VOwes are hearde, and thy Castara's name
Is writ as faire i' the register of Fame,

As th' ancient beauties which translated are
By poets up to Heaven: each there a starre.
And though imperial Tiber boast alone
Ovid's Corinna, and to Arne is knowne

But Petrarch's Laura: while our famous Thames
Doth murmur Sydney's Stella to her streames;
Yet hast thou Severne left, and she can bringe
As many quires of songs as they to sing
Thy glorious love: which living, shall by thee
The only sovereign of those waters be:

Fixed in Love's firmament no starre shall shine
So nobly faire, so purely chaste as thine.

The son of a plain country gentleman, was born at Bentworth, Hampshire, in 1588. At the age of sixteen, he was sent to Magdalen College, Oxford. His father, however, not approving of the acquaintance which his son there formed with the Muses, recalled him shortly afterwards with the intention of devoting him to agricultural pursuits. In opposition to this wish of his parent, Wither made his way to London, and entered at Lincoln's Inn. In 1613, he published some satires, for which he was committed to the Marshalsea prison. On his release he led a most unsettled life, and after complaining of the treatment he experienced from the booksellers, he showed his independence of them by printing with his own hands, "Britain's Remembrance," the largest of all his works. Wither sold his paternal estate at the time of the civil wars, in order to raise a troop of horse for the Parliament. He was taken prisoner and in danger of being hanged, but at the intercession of a a fellow-poet his life was spared. He subsequently held a post under Cromwell, but at the Restoration evil fortune again pursued him. He was committed first to Newgate, and afterwards to the Tower, on account of his angry writings, which were deemed libellous. Whether he died in prison is uncertain, but it is known that he perished in indigence and obscurity about the year 1667.

WHAT is the cause, when elsewhere I resort
I have my gestures and discourse more free?
And, if I please, can any beauty court,

Yet stand so dull and so demure by thee.
Why are my speeches broken, whilst I talk?
Why do I fear almost thy hand to touch?
Why dare I not embrace thee as we walk?

Since with the greatest nymphs I've dared as much. Ah! know that none of these I e'er affected,

And therefore used a careless courtship there;

Because I neither their disdain respected,

Nor reckoned them nor their embraces dear. But loving thee my love hath found content, And rich delight in things indifferent.

WHY Covet I thy blessèd eyes to see,

Whose sweet aspéct may cheer the saddest mind? Why, when our bodies must divided be, Can I no hour of rest or pleasure find? Why do I sleeping start, and waking moan, To find that of my dreamèd hope I miss? Why do I often contemplate alone

Of such a thing as thy perfection is?

And wherefore, when we meet, doth passion stop
My speechless tongue, and leave me in a panting?
Why doth my heart, o'ercharged with fear and hope,
(In spite of reason) almost droop to fainting?
Because in me thy excellencies moving,
Have drawn me to an excellence in loving.

FAIR since thy virtues my affections move,
And I have vowed my purpose is to join

In an eternal bond of chastest love

Our souls, to make a marriage most divine;
Why (thou mayest think) then seemeth he to prize
An outward beauty's fading hue so much?
Why doth he read such lectures in mine eyes,
And often strive my tender palm to touch?
O, pardon my presuming! for I swear,
My love is soilèd by no lustful spot;

Thy soul's perfections through those veils appear,
And I half faint that I embrace them not.
No foul desires doth make thy touches sweet,
But my soul striveth with thy soul to meet.

ON A STOLEN KISS.

Now gentle sleep hath closèd up those eyes,
Which waking kept my boldest thoughts in awe;
And free access unto that sweet lip lies,

From whence I long the rosie breath to draw.
Methinks no wrong it were, if I should steal

From those two melting rubies one poor kiss : None sees the theft that would the theft reveal, Nor rob I her of aught that she can miss:— Nay, should I twenty kisses take away,

There would be little sign I had done so.
Why then should I this robbery delay ?

O! she may wake and therewith angry grow.
Well, if she do, I'll back restore that one,
And twenty hundred thousand more for loan.

TO ANNE, QUEEN OF JAMES I. ON THE DEATH OF HENRY PRINCE OF WALES.

FOR Our fair Queen my grief is no less moving,-
There's none could e'er more justly boast of child :
For he was every way most nobly loving,

Most full of manly courage, and yet mild.
Methinks I see what heavy discontent
Beclouds her brow, and over shades her eyne;
Yea, I do feel her loving heart lament;
An earnest thought conveys the grief to mine.
I see she notes the sadness of the court,
Thinks how that here, or there, she saw him last;
Remembers his sweet speech, his graceful sport,
And such like things to make her passion last.
But what mean I? let grief my speeches smother,
No tongue can tell the sorrows of the mother.