what they will not find elsewhere, the exquisite lyrics on which the fame of Rochester should rest. His satires, as trenchant and vigorous as they are foul, are not included in this edition; he uses the English language in them as Poggio and Filelfo had used Latin. As a dramatist he is only known by his adaptation, or travesty, of Fletcher's tragedy of Valentinian; of which the sole point of interest is that he omitted all Fletcher's exquisite songs including the unequalled 'Hear ye ladies that despise,' and intro duced a very good song of his own, the latter as characteristically of the Restoration as the former were Elizabethan.

With Rochester the power of writing songs died in England until the age of Blake and Burns. He was the last of the cavalier lyrists, and in some respects the best. In the qualities that a song demands, simplicity, brevity, pathos and tenderness, he arrives nearer to pure excellence than any one between Carew and Burns. His style is without adornment, and, save in this one matter of song-writing, he is weighed down by the dryness and inefficiency of his age. But by the side of Sedley or of Congreve he seems as fresh as by the side of Dryden he seems light and flowing, turning his trill of song brightly and sweetly, with the consummate artlessness of true art. Occasionally, as in the piece, not quoted here, called The Mistress, he is surprisingly like Donne in the quaint force and ingenuity of his images. But the fact is that the muse of Rochester resembles nothing so much as a beautiful child which has wantonly rolled itself in the mud, and which has grown so dirty that the ordinary wayfarer would rather pass it hurriedly by, than do justice to its native charms.

EDMUND W. Gosse

SONG.

My dear Mistress has a heart

Soft as those kind looks she gave me ; When, with love's resistless art,

And her eyes, she did enslave me; But her constancy's so weak,

She's so wild and apt to wander, That my jealous heart would break Should we live one day asunder. Melting joys about her move,

Killing pleasures, wounding blisses, She can dress her eyes in love,

And her lips can arm with kisses; Angels listen when she speaks,

She's my delight, all mankind's wonder, But my jealous heart would break Should we live one day asunder.

CONSTANCY.

I cannot change, as others do,

Though you unjustly scorn,

Since that poor swain that sighs for you,

For you alone was born;

No, Phillis, no, your heart to move

A surer way I'll try,

And to revenge my slighted love,

Will still love on, and die.

When, killed with grief, Amintas lies,

And you to mind shall call

The sighs that now unpitied rise,

The tears that vainly fall,

That welcome hour that ends his smart,

Will then begin your pain,

For such a faithful tender heart

Can never break in vain.

THE BOWL

Contrive me, Vulcan, such a cup
As Nestor used of old,

Shew all thy skill to trim it up,
Damask it round with gold.

Make it so large, that, filled with sack
Up to the swelling brim,

Vast toasts on that delicious lake,
Like ships at sea, may swim.

Engrave not battle on his cheek,
With war I've nought to do,
I'm none of those that took Maestrick,
Nor Yarmouth leaguer knew.

Let it no name of planets tell,
Fixed stars or constellations,
For I am no Sir Sindrophel,
Nor none of his relations.

But carve thereon a spreading vine;
Then add two lovely boys;
Their limbs in amorous folds entwine,
The types of future joys.

Cupid and Bacchus my saints are,
May Drink and Love still reign,
With wine I wash away my care,
And then to love again.

SONG.

[From Valentinian.]

Nymph.

Injurious charmer of my vanquished heart,

Canst thou feel love, and yet no pity know?

Since of myself from thee I cannot part,
Invent some gentle way to let me go;

For what with joy thou didst obtain,
And I with more did give,

In time will make thee false and vain,
And me unfit to live.

Shepherd.

Frail angel, that would'st leave a heart forlorn,
With vain pretence Falsehood therein might lie,
Seek not to cast wild shadows o'er your scorn,
You cannot sooner change than I can die;
To tedious life I'll never fall,

Thrown from thy dear-lov'd breast;

He merits not to live at all,

Who cares to live unblest.

SONG.

When on those lovely looks I gaze,
To see a wretch pursuing,

In raptures of a blest amaze,
His pleasing happy ruin,

'Tis not for pity that I move;

His fate is too aspiring,

Whose heart, broke with a load of love,
Dies wishing and admiring.

But if this murder you'd forego,
Your slave from death removing,
Let me your art of charming know,
Or you learn mine of loving;
But whether life or death betide,

In love 'tis equal measure,
The victor lives with empty pride,

The vanquished dies with pleasure.

SONG.

Absent from thee I languish still,
Then ask me not, when I return?
The straying fool 'twill plainly kill
To wish all day, all night to mourn.

Dear, from thine arms then let me fly,
That my fantastic mind may prove
The torments it deserves to try,

That tears my fixed heart from my love.

When, wearied with a world of woe,

To thy safe bosom I retire,

Where love and peace and honour flow,
May I contented there expire.

Lest once more wandering from that heaven
I fall on some base heart unblessed,

Faithless to thee, false, unforgiven,
And lose my everlasting rest.

EPITAPH ON CHARLES II.

Here lies our Sovereign Lord the King,
Whose word no man relies on,

Who never said a foolish thing,

Nor ever did a wise one.