He was the eldest son of Sir William Lovelace of Woolwich; began his education at the Charter House, and, in 1634, being then sixteen, was entered as a gentleman commoner at Gloucester Hall, Oxford. "He was accounted the most amiable and beautiful person that ever eye beheld, of innate modesty, virtuous, and a courtly deportment." On leaving the university he followed the court, and, under the patronage of the profligate Goring, served, first as an ensign, then with a captain's commission. After the pacification, he retired to his paternal residence, Lovelace Place, near Canterbury. estate was worth at least 500l. a year; and he was chosen by the county to present the Kentish petition in the king's favour to the House of Commons, for which the tyrannical patriots who were

His

then in power committed him to the Gatehouse prison; from thence, after some months, he was released, upon the enormous bail of 40,000l. During this imprisonment he wrote his Song to Althea, which will live as long as the English language.

After the ruin of the king's cause, and of his own fortune, which was liberally and honourably expended in that cause, he commanded a regiment in the French service, and was wounded at Dunkirk. Returning in 1648 to England, he was imprisoned; and being set at liberty after the king's death, suffered extreme poverty, lingered out a wretched life till 1658, and then died of consumption, induced by misery and want, in a wretched lodging near Shoe Lane, and was buried at the west end of St. Bride's church.

Dropping December shall come weeping in, Bewail th' usurping of his reign;

But when in show'rs of old Greek we begin Shall cry, he hath his crown again!

Night, as clear Hesper shall our tapers whip, From the light casements where we play, And the dark hag from her black mantle strip, And stick there everlasting day.

Thus richer than untempted kings are we, That asking nothing, nothing need: Though lord of all what seas embrace; yet he That wants himself, is poor indeed.

ON THE DEATH OF

MRS. ELIZABETH FILMER.

AN ELEGIACAL EPITAPH.

You that shall live awhile before
Old Time tires, and is no more;
When that this ambitious stone
Stoops low as what it tramples on;
Know that in that age when sin

Gave the world law, and govern'd queen,

A virgin liv'd, that still put on
White thoughts, though out of fashion;
That trac'd the stars spite of report,

And durst be good, though chidden for't:
Of such a soul that infant heav'n
Repented what it thus had given;
For finding equal happy man,

Th' impatient pow'rs snatch'd it again :
Thus chaste as th' air whither she's fled,
She making her celestial bed
In her warm alabaster lay
As cold as in this house of clay;
Nor where the rooms unfit to feast
Or circumscribe this angel-guest;
The radiant gem was brightly set
In as divine a carcanet;

For which the clearer was not known,
Her mind, or her complexion:

Such an everlasting grace,

Such a beatific face

Incloisters here this narrow floor

That possess'd all hearts before.

Bless'd and bewail'd in death and birth! The smiles and tears of heav'n and earth! Virgins at each step are afeard, Filmer is shot by which they steer'd, Their star extinct, their beauty dead That the young world to honour led; But see! the rapid spheres stand still, And tune themselves unto her will.

Thus, although this marble must, As all things, crumble into dust, And though you find this fair-built tomb Ashes, as what lies in its womb; Yet her saint-like name shall shine A living glory to this shrine, And her eternal fame be read, When all but very virtue's dead.

A reformation I would have,
As for our griefs a sov'reign salve;
That is, a cleansing of each wheel
Of state, that yet some rust doth feel:

But not a reformation so,

As to reform were to o'erthrow; Like watches by unskilful men Disjointed, and set ill again.

The public faith I would adore, But she is bankrupt of her store; Nor how to trust her can I see, For she that cozens all, must me.

Since then none of these can be
Fit objects for my love and me;
What then remains, but th' only spring
Of all our loves and joys? The KING.

He, who being the whole ball
Of day on earth, lends it to all;
When seeking to eclipse his right,
Blinded, we stand in our own light.

And now an universal mist

Of error is spread o'er each breast,
With such a fury edg'd, as is
Not found in th' inwards of th' abyss.

Oh, from thy glorious starry wain
Dispense on me one sacred beam,
To light me where I soon may see
How to serve you, and you trust me.

SONG.

SET BY DR. JOHN WILSON.

TO ALTHEA.

FROM PRISON.

WHEN love with unconfined wings
Hovers within my gates;
And my divine Althea brings

To whisper at the grates:
When I lie tangled in her hair,
And fetter'd to her eye;
The gods that wanton in the air,
Know no such liberty.

When flowing cups run swiftly round
With no allaying Thames,
Our careless heads with roses bound,
Our hearts with loyal flames;
When thirsty grief in wine we steep,
When healths and draughts go free,
Fishes that tipple in the deep,
Know no such liberty.

When (like committed linnets) I
With shriller throat shall sing
The sweetness, mercy, majesty,
And glories of my KING;
When I shall voice aloud, how good
He is, how great should be;
Enlarged winds that curl the flood,
Know no such liberty.

Stone walls do not a prison make,
Nor iron bars a cage;
Minds innocent and quiet take
That for an hermitage;
If I have freedom in my love,
And in my soul am free;
Angels alone that soar above
Enjoy such liberty.