True, a new mistress now I chase,
The first foe in the field;
And with a stronger faith embrace
A sword, a horse, a shield.

Yet this inconstancy is such
As you, too, shall adore ;

I could not love, thee, dear, so much,
Loved I not honour more.

TO ALTHEA, FROM PRISON.

WHEN love with unconfinèd wings

Hovers within my gates,

And my divine Althea brings

To whisper at my grates;
When I lie tangled in her hair,
And fetter'd with her eye,
The birds that wanton in the air,
Know no such liberty.

When flowing cups run swiftly round.

With no allaying Thames,

Our careless heads with roses crown'd, Our hearts with loyal flames ;

When thirsty grief in wine we steep,

When healths and draughts go free,

Fishes that tipple in the deep
Know no such liberty.

When, linnet-like confinèd, I
With shriller note shall sing

The mercy, sweetness, majesty,
And glories of my king;

When I shall voice aloud how good

He is, how great should be,

Th' enlarged winds, that curl the flood, Know no such liberty.

BY JAMES SHIRLEY.-1594-1666.

[JAMES SHIRLEY was born in London, in 1594, and studied both at Oxford and Cambridge. He took orders, then taught in a school, and afterwards wrote plays; but the theatres being suppressed by Parliament, he again became a teacher, and published some elementary works. The losses and misery caused to him by the Great Fire of London brought on an illness which caused his death, in 1666.

His poems show that his talents were enlisted in the cause of virtue; and they well agree with the blameless life he led.]

HE glories of our birth and state

THE

Are shadows, not substantial things;

There is no armour against fate :

Death lays his icy hands on kings;
Sceptre and crown

Must tumble down,

And in the dust be equal made

With the poor crooked scythe and spade.
Some men with swords may reap the field,
And plant fresh laurels where they kill;
But their strong nerves at last must yield,
They tame but one another still;
Early or late,

They stoop to fate,

And must give up their murmuring breath, When they, pale captives, creep to death.

The garlands wither on your brow,

Then boast no more your mighty deeds; Upon Death's purple altar, now,

See where the victor victim bleeds :
All heads must come

To the cold tomb :

Only the actions of the just

Smell sweet and blossom in the dust.

THE LAST CONQUEROR.

VICTORIOUS men of earth, no more Proclaim how wide your empires are:

Though you bind in every shore

And your triumphs reach as far

As night or day,

Yet you, proud monarchs, must obey

And mingle with forgotten ashes, when

Death calls ye to the crowd of common men.

Devouring Famine, Plague, and War,

Each able to undo mankind,

Death's servile emissaries are ;

Nor to these alone confined
He hath at will

More quaint and subtle ways to kill :
A smile or kiss, as he will use the art,
Shall have the cunning skill to break a heart.

ROBIN GOODFELLOW.

ANONYMOUS.

FROM Oberon, in fairy land,

The king of ghosts and shadows there,

Mad Robin, I, at his command,

Am sent to view the night-sports here.

And make good sport, with ho, ho, ho!

More swift than lightning can I fly

About this airy welkin soon,

And, in a minute's space, descry

Each thing that's done below the moon.
There's not a hag

And send them home with ho, ho, ho!

Whene'er such wanderers I meet,

As from their night sports they trudge home,

With counterfeiting voice I greet,

And call them on with me to roam :

Sometimes I meet them like a man,

Sometimes an ox, sometimes a hound;

And to a horse I turn me can,

To trip and trot about them round.

But if to ride

My back they stride,

More swift than wind away I go,
O'er hedge and lands,
Through pools and ponds,

I hurry, laughing, ho, ho, ho!

When lads and lasses merry be,

With possets and with junkets fine;
Unseen of all the company,

I eat their cakes and sip their wine!
And to make sport,