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Goddess of nocturnal sport,
The very curious life of this lady, who was generally and
justly admired for her beauty, her wit, and her accomplishments, is to be found at large in Cibber, Vol. III. and the Biographia Dramatica, where she is mentioned as the writer of no less than 17 plays, besides several novels, poems, &c. The time of her birth is not accurately known, though it was during the reign of Charles I. She died in 1689.
Love in fantastic triumph sat,
While bleeding hearts around him flow'd, For whom fresh pains he did create,
And strange tyrannic power he show'd:
Which round about in sport he hurld;
Enough t’inflame the amorous world.
From me he took his sighs and tears,
From thee his pride and cruelty,
And ev'ry killing dart from thee,
Thus thou and I, the god have arm’d,
And set him up a deity; But my poor heart alone is harm'd, · Whilst thine the victor is, and free. CHARLES COTTON
Was born at Beresford in Staffordshire, 1630. He received
his education at Cambridge, and afterwards travelled : was twice married; had several children ; resided principally at his family seat; and died in 1687. A curious anecdote
is related of him in the Biog. Dramat. This pleasing and elegant author was chiefly distinguished by his“ Virgil Travestie," and other burlesque translations, and in this style of writing was considered as only inferior to Butler. Vide Shiell's (commonly called Cibber’s) Lives of the Poets. His “ Complete Angler,” republished by Sir John Hawkins together with that of Isaac Walton, is also a deservedly popular performance. The following pieces are extracted from his “ Poems on several Occasions,” octavo, 1089.
[From 58 lines.]
Lord! how you take upon you still!
How you crow and domineer!
And carry the dominion clear,
Fie, Chloris, 'tis å gross mistake,
Correct your error, and be wise ;
I kindly still your kindness take,
But yet have learn’d, though love I prize,
I was a fool whilst you were fair,
And I had youth ť excuse it;
I then myself your vassal sware,
But on condition that you not abuse it,
'Tis beauty that to woman-kind
Gives all the rule and sway; Which once declining, or declin'd,
Men afterwards unwillingly obey.
Yet still you have enough, and more than needs,
To rule a more rebellious heart than mine; For as your eyes still shoot, my heart still bleeds,
And I must be a subject still :
Nor is it much against my will, Though I pretend to wrestle and repine.
Your beauties, sweet, are in their height,
And I must still adore ;