"copied from the shows exhibited at Whitehall, in "its time THE MOST POLITE COURT IN EUROPE. "Ben Jonson was the laureat; Inigo Jones, the "inventor of the decorations; Laniere and Fera"bosco composed the symphonies; the king, the queen, and the young nobility, danced in the "interludes." Taste, and wit, and gaiety, disappeared during the subsequent reign of republicanism; and the general gloom was seldom interrupted, except by the compositions of a few cavaliers, who amused themselves by harassing with ridicule, the dull and insipid manners of their puritanical enemies.

The reader will find in bishop Percy's" Reliques "of Ancient English Poetry," (Vol. II. p. 338, 4th edit.) some verses by Charles I. which lord Orford has, rather too hastily, condemned as most uncouth and inharmonious, at the same time that he has recognized in them some good sense, and a strain of majestic piety.

CAREW.

Mr. Headley, in his Biographical Sketches, p. 39, has very justly observed, that "Carew has the ease, without the "pedantry of Waller, and perhaps less conceit. He re"minds us of the best manner of lord Lyttelton. Waller "is too exclusively considered as the first man who brought "versification to any thing like its present standard. "Carew's pretensions to the same merit are seldom suffi"ciently either considered or allowed." Lord Clarendon, however, has remarked of his poems, that, " for the sharp"ness of the fancy, and for the elegance of the language "in which that fancy was spread, they were at least equal, "if not superior, to any of that time. But his glory was "that, after fifty years of his life spent with less severity " and exactness than they ought to have been, he died with "the greatest remorse for that licence, and with the greatest "manifestation of Christianity, that his best friends could "desire."

Carew is generally supposed to have died young in 1639, and I have therefore placed his birth about 1600, though, from the preceding passage from Clarendon, it seems probable that his birth ought to be placed earlier, or his death later. The earliest edition of his works which I have seen, was printed in 1642, which, however, is called in the title the second edition.

SWEETLY breathing vernal air,
That, with kind warmth, dost repair
Winter's ruins; from whose breast
All the gums and spice of th' east
Borrow their perfumes; whose eye
Gilds the morn, and clears the sky;
Whose dishevel'd tresses shed
Pearls upon the violet-bed:

On whose brow, with calm smiles drest,
The halcyon sits, and builds her nest;
Beauty, youth, and endless spring,
Dwell upon thy rosy wing.

Thou, if stormy Boreas throws

Down whole forests when he blows,

With a pregnant flowery birth
Canst refresh the teeming earth:
If he nip the early bud,

If he blast what's fair or good,
If he scatter our choice flowers,
If he shake our halls or bowers,
If his rude breath threaten us,
Thou canst stroke great Æolus,
And from him the grace obtain
To bind him in an iron chain.

PERSUASIONS TO LOVE.

THINK not, 'cause men flattering say,
Y'are fresh as April, sweet as May,
Bright as is the morning star,
That you are so; or though you are,
Be not therefore proud, and deem
All men unworthy your esteem:
For, being so, you lose the pleasure
Of being fair, since that rich treasure
Of rare beauty and sweet feature,
Was bestow'd on you by nature

To be enjoy'd, and 'twere a sin

There to be scarce, where she hath been
So prodigal of her best graces:

Thus common beauties, and mean faces,
Shall have more pastime, and enjoy
The sport you lose by being coy.
Did the thing for which I sue
Only concern myself, not you;
Were men so fram'd as they alone
Reap'd all the pleasure, women none;
Then had you reason to be scant;
But, 'twere a madness not to grant
That which affords (if you consent)
To you, the giver, more content,

Than me, the beggar. Oh then be
Kind to yourself, if not to me!
Starve not yourself, because you may
Thereby make me pine away;
Nor let brittle beauty make
You your wiser thoughts forsake!
For that lovely face will fail:
Beauty's sweet, but beauty's frail;
'Tis sooner past, 'tis sooner done,
Than summer's rain, or winter's sun;
Most fleeting, when it is most dear;

"Tis

gone, while we but say 'tis here.
These curious locks, so aptly twin'd,
Whose every hair a soul doth bind,
Will change their auburn hue, and grow.
White and cold as winter's snow.

That eye, which now is Cupid's nest,

Will

prove his grave; and all the rest Will follow; in the cheek, chin, nose, Nor lily shall be found, nor rose. And what will then become of all Those whom now you servants call? Like swallows, when your summer's done, They'll fly, and seek some warmer sun. Then wisely choose one to your friend, Whose love may (when your beauties end)