The snakes being from her body thrust,
Their bellies were so fill'd,
That with excess of blood they burst,
Thus with their prey were kill'd.

The wicked lady, at this sight,

With horror strait ran mad;

So raving dy'd, as was most right,
'Cause she no pity had.

Let me advise you, ladies all,
Of jealousy beware:

It causeth many a one to fall,
And is the devil's snare.

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IX.

Jealousy, Tyrant of the Mind.

This song is by Dryden, being inserted in his Tragi-Comedy of Love
Triumphant, &c. On account of the subject, it is inserted here.

WHAT state of life can be so blest,
As love that warms the gentle brest;
Two souls in one: the same desire
To grant the bliss and to require?
If in this heaven a hell we find,

'Tis all from thee,

O Jealousie!

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Thou tyrant, tyrant of the mind.

All other ills, though sharp they prove,
Serve to refine and perfect love;

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In absence or unkind disdaine,

Sweet hope relieves the lovers paine.

But, oh, no cure but death we find
To sett us free

From Jealousie,

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Thou tyrant, tyrant of the mind.

The ladies are indebted for the following notable documents to the Pepys collection, where the original is preserved in black-letter, and is entitled, "A Looking-Glass for Ladies, or a Mirrour for Married Women. Tune, Queen Dido, or, Troy town."

WHEN Greeks and Trojans fell at strife,

And lords in armour bright were seen,

"Thou god, whose power is in the deep And rulest in the ocean main,

Since she had lost her heart's delight.

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"Now shall my practice be," quoth she,

The spiders, that on rafters twine,

Scarce spin a thread more soft and fine.

Sometimes she would bewail the loss
And absence of her dearest love;
Sometimes she thought the seas to cross,

Her fortune on the waves to prove. "I fear my lord is slain," quoth she, "He stays so from Penelope."

At length the ten years siege of Troy
Did end; in flames the city burn'd;
And to the Grecians was great joy

To see the towers to ashes turn'd;
Then came Ulysses home to see
His constant, dear Penelope.

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O blame her not if she was glad

When she her lord again had seen.

"Thrice-welcome home, my dear," she said,

To Lucasta, on going to the Wars.

By Colonel Richard Lovelace: from the volume of his poems, entitled Lucasta, Lond. 1649, 12m. The elegance of this writer's manner would be more admired if it had somewhat more of simplicity.

TELL me not, sweet, I am unkinde,

That from the nunnerie

Of thy chaste brest and quiet minde,
To warre and armes I flie.

True, a new mistresse now I chase,
The first foe in the field;
And with a stronger faith imbrace
A sword, a horse, a shield.

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