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No cure to care, farewell all joy,

Retire poor soul, and die ! Yet ere thou die, thyself employ

That thou may’st mount the sky:
Where thou mnay'st move commanding Jove

That Pluto he might go
To wed thy wife, who ended thy life;

For this will cure thy woe!

CARE'S CURE, OR A FIG FOR CARE.

[From “ Panedone, or Health from Helicon,"1621.]

HAPPY is that state of his,
Takes the world as it is.
Lose he honour, friendship, wealth,
Lose he liberty or health ;
Lose he all that earth can give,
Having nought whereon to live;
So prepar'd a mind's in him,
He's resoly'd to sink or swim.

Should I ought dejected be,
'Cause blind fortune frowns on me?
Or put finger in the eye
When I see my Damon die ?

Or repine such should inherit
More of honours than of merit?
Or put on a sourer face,
To see virtue in disgrace ?

Should I weep, when I do try
Fickle friends' inconstancy?
Quite discarding mine and me,
When they should the firmest be;
Or think much when barren brains
Are possess’d of rich domains,
When in reason it were fit
They had wealth unto their wit?

Should I spend the morn in tears,
'Cause I see my neighbour's ears
Stand so slopewise from his head,
As if they were horns indeed ?
Or to see his wife at once
Branch his brow and break his sconce,
Or to hear her in her spleen
Callet like a butter-quean?

Should I sigh, because I see
Laws like spider-webs to be,
Where lesser flies are quickly ta’en,
While the great break out again;

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, feed, 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 so,

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

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