Sent in this foul clime to languish,
Think what thousands fell in vain,

Wafted with disease and anguish,
Not in glorious battle flain.

Hence with all my train attending
From their oozy tombs below,
Thro' the hoary foam afcending,
Here I feed my constant woe:
Here the Bastimentos viewing,
We recal our shameful doom,
And our plaintive cries renewing,
Wander thro' the midnight gloom.

O'er these waves for ever mourning
Shall we roam depriv'd of reft,
If to Britain's shores returning
You neglect my just request;
After this proud foe subduing,
When your patriot friends you fee,

Think on vengeance for my ruin,
And for England sham'd in me.

THE SHEPHERD's RESOLUTION.

S

AN OLD BALLAD.

BY GEORGE WITHER.

HALL I, wafting in difpaire, Dye because a woman's faire? Or make pale my cheeks with care, 'Cause another's rofie are?

Be

Be shee fairer than the day,
Or the flowry meads in May;

If she think not well of me,
What care I how faire she be?

Shall my heart be griev'd or pin'd,
'Cause I see a woman kind?
Or a well-disposed nature
Joyned with a lovely feature ?
Be shee meeker, kinder, than
The turtle-dove or pelican;

If shee be not fo to me,
What care I how kind shee be?

Shall a woman's virtues move
Me, to perish for her love?
Or, her well-deservings knowne,
Make me quite forget my owne?
Be shee with that goodnesse bleft,
Which may merit name of Best;

If the be not fuch to me,
What care I how good the be?

'Cause her fortune seems too high,
Shall I play the foole and dye?
Those that beare a noble minde,
Where they want of riches finde,
Thinke what with them they would doe,
That without them dare to wooe;

And, unlesse that minde I see,
What care I, though great thee be?

Great

Great or good, or kind or faire,
I will ne'er the more dispaire:
If the love me, this beleeve,
I will die ere she shall grieve;
If she slight me, when I wooe;
I can scorne and let her goe:

For, if shee be not for me,
What care I for whom shee be?

THE STEDFAST SHEPHERD.

BY THE SAME.

HENCE away, you Syrens, leave me,

unclaspe your wanton armes ;

Sugred words shall ne'er deceive me,

(Though you' prove a thousand charmés).

Fie, fie, forbeare;

No common snare

Could ever my affection chaine :

Your painted baits

And poore deceits,

Are all bestowed on me in vain.

I'm no slave to such as you be;

Neither shall a snowy brest,

Wanton eye, or lip of ruby

Ever rob me of my rest;
Goe, goe, display

Your beautie's ray

1

Te To fome ore-foone enamour'd swaine:

Those common wiles

Of fighs and smiles

Are all bestowed on me in vaine.

I have elsewhere vowed a dutie;

Turn away 'your' tempting eyes:

Shew not me a naked beautie;

Those impostures I despise :

My spirit lothes

Where gawdy clothes

And fained othes may love obtaine:
I love her fo

Whose looke swears No;

That all your labours will be vaine.

Can he prize the tainted pofies,

Which on every breft are worne;
That may plucke the spotlesse reses
From their never-touched thorne ?
I can goe rest

On her sweet brest,

That is the pride of Cynthia's traine:
Then hold your tongues;

Your mermaid fongs

Are all bestowed on me in vaine.

Hee's a foole, that basely dallies,

Where each peasant mates with him;

Shall I haunt the thronged vallies,

Whilst ther's noble hills to climbe?

No, no, though clowns

Are skar'd with frownes,

I know the best can but disdaine;
And those I'le prove;
So shall your love

Be all bestowed on me in vaine.

I doe scorne to vow a dutie,

Where each luftfull lad may woe:

Give me her, whose sun-like beautie

Buzzards dare not foare unto:

Shee, shee it is

Affords that blisse

For which I would refuse no paine:
But fuch as you,

Fond fooles, adieu;

You seeke to captive me in vaine.

Leave me then, you Syrens, leave me ;

Seeke no more to worke my harmes :

Craftie wiles eannot deceive me,

Who am proofe against your charmes :

You labour may

To lead aftray

The heart, that constant shall remaine :

And I the while

Will fit and smile

To fee you spend your time in vaine.

AUTUMN.