When all the stormy world doth roar

How unconcern'd am I?

I cannot fear to tumble lower

Who never could be high.

Secure in these unenvy'd walls
I think not on the state,
And pity no man's case that falls
From his ambition's height.

Silence and innocence are safe;
A heart that's nobly true
At all these little arts can laugh
That do the world subdue.

While others revel it in state
Here I'll contented sit,
And think I have as good a fate
As wealth and pomp admit.

Let some in courtship take delight,
And to th' Exchange resort;
Then revel out a winter's night,
Not making love but sport.

These never know a noble flame, 'Tis lust, scorn, or design:

While vanity plays all their game,
Let peace and honour mine.

When the inviting spring appears,
To Hyde-Park let them go,
And hasting thence be full of fears
To lose Spring-Garden show.

Let others (nobler) seek to gain
In knowledge happy fate,
And others busy them in vain
To study ways of state.

But I resolved from within,
Confirmed from without,

In privacy intend to spin
My future minutes out.

And from this hermitage of mine,

I banish all wild toys,
And nothing that is not divine

Shall dare to tempt my joys.

There are below but two things good,

Friendship and Honesty,

And only those of all I would

Ask for felicity.

In this retir'd and humble seat,

Free from both war and strife, I am not forc'd to make retreat, But chuse to spend my life.

FRANCES BOOTHBY

Lived in the reign of Charles II. and was related to Lady Yate, of Harvington, in Worcestershire, as we learn from the dedication of the only piece she has written, a play called Marcelia, 1670.

SONG.

1.

You powerful Gods, if I must be
An injur'd offering to Love's deity,
Grant my revenge, this plague on men,
That women ne'er may love again.

Then I'll with joy submit unto my fate,

Which by your justice gives their empire date.

2.

Depose that proud insulting boy,

Who most is pleas'd when he can most destroy;

O let the world no longer govern'd be

By such a blind and childish Deity! For if

you Gods be in your power severe, We shall adore you, not from love, but fear.

Let that not pity, but our laughter move.

Thus scorn'd and lost to all their wishes aim,
Let Rage, Despair, and Death, then end their