Passion o' me! how I run on! There's that that would be thought upon, I trow, besides the bride; The business of the kitchen 's great, For it is fit that men should eat, Nor was it there denied. Just in the nick, the cook knock'd thrice, And all the waiters in a trice His summons did obey: Each serving man, with dish in hand, March'd boldly up, like our train'd band, When all the meat was on the table, What man of knife or teeth was able To stay to be intreated? And this the very reason was, Before the parson could say grace, The company was seated. Now hats fly off, and youths carouse, (And who could help it, Dick?) * The house seems to turn round as the "youths" get tipsy. O' th' sudden up they rise and dance; Then dance again and kiss : Thus several ways the time did pass, By this time all were stol'n aside But yet 'twas thought he guess'd her mind, Above an hour or so. When in he came, Dick, there she lay, ('Twas time, I trow, to part.) Kisses were now the only stay, Which soon she gave, as who would say, "Good bye! with all my heart." But just as heavens would have, to cross it, In came the bride-maids with the posset; The bridegroom ate in spite; For had he left the women to 't, It would havé cost two hours to do 't, Which were too much that night. RICHARD LOVELACE, Born 1618, died 1658. TO ALTHEA, FROM PRISON. WHEN Love, with unconfined wings, And my divine Althea brings To whisper at the grates; The birds, that wanton in the air, When flowing cups run swiftly round, Our careless heads with roses bound, When thirsty grief in wine we steep, Fishes, that tipple in the deep, Know no such liberty. When, like committed linnets, I With shriller throat shall sing The sweetness, mercy, majesty, When I shall voice aloud how good Stone walls do not a prison make, Nor iron bars a cage; If I have freedom in my love, ABRAHAM COWLEY, Born 1618, died 1667. THE CHANGE. LOVE in her sunny eyes does basking play; Within, Love's foes, his greatest foes, abide, Malice, Inconstancy, and Pride : So the earth's face trees, herbs, and flowers, do dress, With other beauties numberless; But at the centre darkness is, and hell; There wicked spirits, and there the damned, dwell. With me, alas! quite contrary it fares; Keeps his proud court, and ne'er is seen. Oh! take my heart, and by that means you'll prove Give me but yours, I'll by that change so thrive, So powerful is this change, it render can |