LXXXVIII LOVE AND MARRIAGE In vain does Hymen, with religious vows 'Tis Love alone can make our fetters please. The angry tyrant lays his yoke on all, Yet in his fiercest rage is charming still; APHRA BEHN. LXXXIX THE SIEGE 'Tis now, since I sat down before That foolish fort, a heart, (Time strangely spent!) a year and more, And still I did my part : Made my approaches, from her hand. Unto her lip did rise; And did already understand The language of her eyes: Proceeded on with no less art, (My tongue was engineer ;) I thought to undermine the heart By whispering in the ear. When this did nothing, I brought down. I then resolv'd to starve the place, To draw her out and from her strength, I drew all batteries in ; And brought myself to lie, at length, When I had done what man could do, And thought the place mine own, The enemy lay quiet too, And smil'd at all was done. I sent to know from whence, and where These hopes and this relief? A spy inform'd, Honour was there, And did command in chief. "March, march," quoth I; "the word straight give, Let's lose no time, but leave her; That giant upon air will live, And hold it out for ever." XC SIR J. SUCKLING. THE OLD MAN'S WISH IF I live to grow old, for I find I go down, May I govern my passion with an absolute sway, away, Without gout or stone, by a gentle decay. Near a shady grove, and a murmuring brook, With a spacious plain without hedge or stile, And an easy pad-nag to ride out a mile. May I govern, etc. With Plutarch and Horace, and one or two more With a pudding on Sunday, with stout humming liquor, With a hidden reserve of Burgundy wine, I hope I shall have no occasion to send For priests or physicians, till I'm so near my end, That I have eat all my bread and drank my last glass, Let them come then and set their seals to my pass. May I govern, etc. With courage undaunted may I face my last day, For he governed his passion with an absolute sway, away, Without gout or stone, by a gentle decay. DR. W. POPE. XCI THE BAG OF THE BEE ABOUT the sweet bag of a bee, And whose the pretty prize should be Which Venus hearing, thither came, Which done, to still their wanton cries, R. HERRICK. XCII AGAINST PLEASURE THERE'S no such thing as pleasure here, 'Tis all a perfect cheat, Which does but shine and disappear, Whose charm is but deceit ; |