Or so many schisms and sects,
Which foul heresy detects,
To suppress the fire of zeal
Both in church and common-weal ?

No, there's nought on earth I fear
That may force from me one tear.
Loss of honours, freedom, health,
Or that mortal idol, wealth ;
With these, babes may grieved be,
But they have no pow'r on me.
Less my substance, less the share
In my fear and in my care.

Thus to love, and thus to live, Thus to take, and thus to give, Thus to laugh, and thus to sing, Thus to mount on pleasure's wing, Thus to sport, and thus to speed, Thus to flourish, nourish, fced, Thus to spend, and thus to spare, Is to bid a fig for care.

WILLIAM BROWN,

Seems to have been born about 1590, at Tavistock, in Devon.

shire, educated at Oxford, and afterwards at the Middle Temple, where he published, in 1613, the first part of his “ Britannia's Pastorals.” In 1614 was published his “Shepherd's Pipe," and, two years after, the second part of the Pastorals. In 1624 he returned to Exeter college, and became tutor to Robert Dormer, afterwards earl of Carnarvon. He then went into the family of the earl of Pembroke, and is supposed to have died in 1645. An elegant edition of his works, which were become extremely scarce, was published in 1772, in three small volumes, by Mr. Davies. We are obliged to Brown for having preserved, in his Shep

herd's Pipe, a curious poem by Occleve. Mr. Warton supposes his works to “have been well known to Milton."

SONG.

[In Britannia's Pastorals.]

SHALL I tell you whom I love?

Hearken then a while to me:
And if such a woman move

As I now shall versifie,
Be assur'd 'tis she, or none,
That I love, and love alone.

Nature did her so much right,

As she scorns the help of art; In as many virtues dight

As e'er yet embrac'd a heart; So much good, so truly tried, Some for less were deified.

Wit she hath, without desire

To make known how much she hath: And her anger flames no higher

Than may fitly sweeten wrath;
Full of pity as may be,
Though, perhaps, not so to me.

Reason masters every sense,

And her virtues grace her birth; ,
Lovely as all excellence,

Modest in her most of mirth;
Likelihood enough to prove
Only worth could kindle love.

Such she is; and if you know

Such a one as I have sung,
Be she brown, or fair, or-50,

That she be but somewhile young;
Be assur'd ’tis she, or none,
That I love, and love alone.

THYRSIS'S PRAISE TO HIS MISTRESS.

[From England's Helicon.] On a hill that grac'd the plain Thyrsis sate, a comely swain,

Comelier swain ne'er graced a hill; Whilst his flock, that wander'd nigh, Cropt the green grass busily,

Thus he tuned his oaten quill :

Ver hath made the pleasant field
Many several odours yield,

Odours aromatical:
From fair Astra's cherry lip
Sweeter smells for ever skip,

They in pleasing passen all.

Leafy groves now mainly ring
With each sweet bird's sonnetting,

Notes that make the echoes long :
But when Astra tunes her voice,
All the mirthful birds rejoice,

And are list’ning to her song,

Fairly spreads the damask rose,
Whose rare mixture doth disclose

Beauties, pencils cannot feign: Yet, if Astra pass the bush, Roses have been seen to blush;

She doth all their beauties stain.

Fields are blest with flow'ry wreath,
Air is blest when she doth breathe,

Birds make happy every grove,
She each bird when she doth sing;
Phæbus heat to earth doth bring,

She makes marble fall in love.

THE SYREN'S SONG.

[In the Inner Temple Mask.]

Steer, hither steer, your winged pines,

All beaten mariners !
Here lie love's undiscover'd mines,

A prey to passengers. . Perfumes far sweeter than the best Which make the phenix’ urn and nest,

Fear not your ships,
Nor any to oppose you, save our lips;