Which thence (perhaps) rebounding may And all the way, to guide their chime, THE GARDEN How vainly men themselves amaze Fair Quiet, have I found thee here, To this delicious solitude. No white nor red was ever seen How far these beauties hers exceed! Fair trees! wheres'e'er your barks I wound, No name shall but your own be found. When we have run our passions' heat The gods, who mortal beauty chase, Only that she might laurel grow; What wondrous life is this I lead! Meanwhile the mind, from pleasure less, The mind, that ocean where each kind To a green thought in a green shade. Here at the fountain's sliding foot My soul into the boughs does glide; Such was that happy Garden-state While man there walk'd without a mate: After a place so pure and sweet, What other help could yet be meet! But 'twas beyond a mortal's share To wander solitary there: How well the skilful gardner drew How could such sweet and wholesome hours SIR CHARLES SEDLEY [1639?-1701] TO CELIA 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 All that in woman is adored For the whole sex can but afford Why then should I seek further store, When change itself can give no more, JOHN WILMOT, EARL OF ROCHESTER [1647-1680.] CONSTANCY I CANNOT change, as others do, Since that poor swain that sighs for you, For you alone was born; No, Phillis, no, your heart to move A surer way I'll try, And to revenge my slighted love, Will still love on, and die. When killed with grief Amintas lies, The tears that vainly fall, That welcome hour that ends his smart, For such a faithful tender heart Can never break in vain. ON CHARLES II HERE lies our Sovereign Lord the King, Who never said a foolish thing, Nor ever did a wise one. JOHN DRYDEN [1631-1700] A SONG FOR ST. CECILIA'S DAY, 1687 FROM harmony, from heavenly harmony When Nature underneath a heap And could not heave her head, The tuneful voice was heard from high, Then cold, and hot, and moist, and dry, And Music's power obey. From harmony, from heavenly harmony From harmony to harmony Thro' all the compass of the notes it ran, What passion cannot Music raise and quell! To worship that celestial sound. Less than a god they thought there could not dwell That spoke so sweetly and so well. What passion cannot Music raise and quell! The trumpet's loud clangor Excites us to arms, And mortal alarms. The double double double beat Cries: "Hark! the foes come; Charge, charge, 'tis too late to retreat!" |