Extract from a Chorus in “ Julius Cæsar."

This life of ours is like a rose,

Which, whilst it beauties rare array, Doth then enjoy the least repose; When, virgin-like, it blush we see,

Then is’t of every hand the prey,

And by each wind is blown away; Yea, though from violence 'scaped free,

Yet doth it languish and decay.

So, whilst the courage hottest boils, And that our life seems best to be,

It is with danger compast still,

Of which, though none it chance to kill,

As nature fails, the body falls.

Since, as a ship amidst the deeps,

Or as an eagle through the air,
Which of their way no impression keeps,
Most swift, when seeming least to move,

This breath, of which we take such care,
Doth toss the body every where,

That it may hence with 'haste remove
Life slips and sleeps always away,
Then whence, and as it came, goes bare,

Whose steps behind no trace do leave.

Why should heav'n-banish'd souls thus love

The cause and bounds of their exile, Where they as restless strangers stray?

And with such pain why should they reave

That which they have no right to have, Which, with themselves, within short while, As summer's beauties, must decay,

And can give nought except the grave ?

SONG.

(From the Aurora.)

O WOULD to God a way were found,

That by some secret sympathy unknown,
My fair my fancy's depth might sound,
And know my state as clearly as her own!

Then blest, most blest were I,
No doubt, beneath the sky,

I were the happiest wight;
For if my state they knew,
It ruthless rocks would rue,

And mend me if they might.

The deepest rivers make least din,

The silent soul doth most abound in care,
Then might my breast be read within,
A thousand volumes would be written there.

Might silence shew my mind,
Sighs tell how I were pin'd,

Or looks my woes relate:
Then any pregnant wit,
That well remarked it,

Would soon discern my state.

Oft those that do deserve disdain,

For forging fancies get the best reward ;
When I, who feel what they do feign,
For too much love am had in no regard.

Behold, by proof we see,
The gallant living free,

His fancies doth extend ;
Where he that is o'ercome,

Rein'd with respects, stands dumb,

Still fearing to offend.

Then since in vain I plaints impart

To scorriful ears, in a contemned scroll,
And since my tongue betrays my heart,
And cannot tell the anguish of my soul,

Henceforth I'll hide my losses,
And not recount the crosses

That do my joys o’erthrow;
At least, to senseless things,
Mounts, vales, woods, floods, and springs,

I shall them only show.

Ah! unaffected lines,

True models of my heart;
The world may see that in you shines

The power of passion, more than art.

WILLIAM HERBERT,

EARL OF PEMBROKE.

The character of this nobleman is (as lord Orford has already

observed) most admirably drawn by lord Clarendon. (Hist. Rebellion, Vol. I. p. 57.) A collection of poems, partly written by him, partly by Sir Benjamin Ruddier, and partly (as it should seem) transcribed from other writers, was published in 1660, in one volume 8vo. If the following poem be really his, it is highly creditable to his taste.

SONNET.

So glides along the wanton brook,

With gentle pace into the main, Courting the banks with amorous look

He never means to see again.

And so does fortune use to smile

Upon the short-lived fav’rite's face, Whose swelling hopes she does beguile,

And always casts him in the race.