CHARLES SACKVILLE, EARL OF DORSET

5

Let wind and weather do its worst,

Be you to us but kind;
Let Dutchmen vapour, Spaniards curse,

No sorrow we shall find :
'T is then no matter how things go,
Or who's our friend, or who's our foe-

With a fa, la, la, la, la !

40

45

To pass our tedious hours away

We throw a merry main,
Or else at serious ombre play;

But why should we in vain
Each other's ruin thus pursue?
We were undone when we left you-

With a fa, la, la, la, la !

50

But now our fears tempestuous grow

And cast our hopes away,
Whilst you, regardless of our woe,

Sit careless at a play,
Perhaps permit some happier man
To kiss your hand or flirt your fan-

With a fa, la, la, la, la!

55

When any mournful tune you hear

That dies in ev'ry note,
As if it sighed with each man's care

For being so remote,
Think then how often love we've made
To you, when all those tunes were played-

With a fa, la, la, la, la!

60

65

In justice you cannot refuse

To think of our distress,
When we for hopes of honour lose

Our certain happiness :
All those designs are but to prove
Ourselves more worthy of your love

With a fa, la, la, la, la !

70

And now we've told you all our loves,

And likewise all our fears,

In hopes this declaration moves

Some pity for our tears:
Let's hear of no inconstancy;
We have too much of that at sea-

With a fa, la, la, la, la!

75

1665.

ON A LADY WHO FANCIED HERSELF A BEAUTY

Dorinda's sparkling wit and eyes,

United, cast too fierce a light,
Which blazes high but quickly dies,

Pains not the heart but hurts the sight.

5

Love is a calmer, gentler joy;

Smooth are his looks, and soft his pace:
Her Cupid is a blackguard boy,

That runs his link full in your face.
Before 1680.

1701.

SONG

Phyllis, for shame! let us improve,

A thousand different ways,
Those few short moments snatched by love

From many tedious days.

But when the least regard I show

To fools who thus advise,
May I be dull enough to grow

Most miserably wise!
Before 1680.

20

1750.

SIR CHARLES SEDLEY

SONG
Not, Celia, that I juster am

Or better than the rest;
For I would change each hour like them,

Were not my heart at rest.
But I am tied to very thee,

By ev'ry thought I have;
Thy face I only care to see,

Thy heart I only crave.

5

10

All that in woman is adored

In thy dear self I find
For the whole sex can but afford

The handsome and the kind.

Why then should I seek further store

And still make love anew ?
When change itself can give no more,

'T is easy to be true. Between 1668 and 1687.

15

1702.

LOVE STILL HAS SOMETHING OF THE SEA →

Love still has something of the sea,

From whence his mother rose;
No time his slaves from love can free,

Nor give their thoughts repose.
They are becalmed in clearest days,

And in rough weather tost;
They wither under cold delays,

Or are in tempests lost.

5

25

An hundred thousand oaths your fears

Perhaps would not remove;
And if I gazed a thousand years,

I could no deeper love.
Between 1668 and 1687.

1702.

PHYLLIS IS MY ONLY JOY
Phyllis is my only joy;

Faithless as the winds or seas,
Sometimes coming, sometimes coy,
Yet she never fails to please:

If with a frown
I am cast down,
Phyllis, smiling

And beguiling,
Makes me happier than before.

5

10

Though, alas! too late I find

Nothing can her fancy fix,
Yet the moment she is kind

I forgive her all her tricks;

Love in fantastic triumph sate,

Whilst bleeding hearts around him flowed,
For whom fresh pains he did create,

And strange tyrannic power he showed:
From thy bright eyes he took the fires

Which round about in sport he hurled;
But 't was from mine he took desires

Enough ť undo the amorous world.

5

10

From me he took his sighs and tears,

From thee his pride and cruelty;
From me his languishments and fears,

And every killing dart from thee:
Thus thou and I the god have armed,

And set him up a deity;
But my poor heart alone is harmed,

Whilst thine the victor is, and free.

15

1677.

JOHN WILMOT, EARL OF ROCHESTER

LOVE AND LIFE

All my past life is mine no more;

The flying hours are gone,
Like transitory dreams given o'er,
Whose images are kept in store

By memory alone.

5

The time that is to come is not;

How can it, then, be mine?