Then, Julia, let me woo thee,

Thus, thus to come unto me;

And when I shall meet
Thy silvery feet,

My soul I'll pour into thee.

UPON JULIA'S HAIR, BUNDLED UP IN A GOLDEN NET.

Tell me, what needs those rich deceits,
These golden toils and trammel-nets,
To take thine hairs, when they are known
Already tame, and all thine own?
'Tis I am wild, and more than hairs
Deserve these meshes and those snares,
So free thy tresses; let them flow
As airs do breathe or winds do blow;
And let such curious net-works be
Less set for them than spread for me.

TO ANTHEA.

Anthea, I am going hence

With some small stock of innocence,
But yet those blesséd gates I see
Withstanding entrance unto me.
To pray for me do thou begin,
The porter then will let me in.

TO ANTHEA.

Now is the time, when all the lights wax dim,
And thou, Anthea, must withdraw from him
Who was thy servant. Dearest, bury me

Under that holy oak, or gospel-tree,

Where, though thou see 'st not, thou may'st think upon Me, when thou yearly go 'st procession:

Or for mine honour, lay me in that tomb
In which thy sacred relics shall have room;
For my embalming, sweetest, there will be
No spices wanting, when I'm laid by thee.

BEING ONCE BLIND, HIS REQUEST TO BIANCHA.

When age or chance has made me blind,
So that the path I cannot find;

And when my falls and stumblings are
More than the stones i' th' street by far;
Go thou afore, and I shall well
Follow thy perfumes by the smell:
Or be my guide, and I shall be
Led by some light that flows from thee.
Thus held, or led by thee, I shall
In ways confused nor slip nor fall.

TO THE WESTERN WIND.

Sweet western wind, whose luck it is
Made rival with the air,

To give Perenna's lip a kiss,

And fan her wanton hair,

Bring me but one, I'll promise thee,
Instead of common showers,

Thy wings shall be embalmed by me,
And all beset with flowers.

TO HIS MAID PRUE.

These summer-birds did with thy master stay The times of warmth, but then they flew away,

Leaving their poet, being now grown old,
Exposed to all the coming winter's cold.

But thou, kind Prue, didst with my fates abide
As well the winter's as the summer's tide:

For which thy love, live with thy master here, Not two, but all the seasons of the year.

UPON PRUE, HIS MAID.

In this little urn is laid

Prudence Baldwin, once my maid;
From whose happy spark here let
Spring the purple violet.

TO ELECTRA.

I dare not ask a kiss;

I dare not beg a smile;

Lest having that or this,

I might grow proud the while.

No, no, the utmost share

Of my desire shall be,

Only to kiss that air

That lately kisséd thee.

TO MYRRHA, HARD-HEARTED.

Fold now thine arms, and hang the head,

Like to a lily witheréd:

Next, look thou like a sickly moon,

Or like Jocasta in a swoon.

Then weep, and sigh, and softly go,
Like to a widow drowned in woe:

Or like a virgin full of ruth,

For the lost sweet-heart of her youth:

And all because, fair maid, thou art
Insensible of all my smart;

And of those evil days that be
Now posting on to punish thee.

The gods are easy and condemn
All such as are not soft like them.

UPON THE LOSS OF HIS MISTRESSES.

I have lost, and lately, these
Many dainty mistresses:
Stately Julia, prime of all;
Sappho next, a principal:
Smooth Anthea, for a skin

White, and heaven-like crystalline:

Sweet Electra, and the choice
Myrrha for the lute and voice ;
Next Corinna, for her wit,
And the graceful use of it,
With Perilla. All are gone;

Only Herrick 's left alone,
For to number sorrow by
Their departures hence, and die.

RICHARD LOVELACE.

1618-1658.

LU C A S T A.

THE life of Lovelace is a melancholy chapter of literary biography, for in whatever light we regard him he possesses a strong claim to our admiration and pity. He figures in English Literature as a poet of the first order, and in the History of his time as an accomplished gentleman and a valiant soldier-the beau ideal of a cavalier: Charles Stewart had no more faithful servant than Richard Lovelace. His attachment to the royal family may be dated from his eighteenth year, when he was made master of arts at Oxford, at the intercession of a great lady belonging to the queen. When he quitted the University he came up to London, and lived at court for some time in great splendour. He served against the Scotch in two expeditions, and returning to England when the hopes of his party were at an end, he retired to his estates in Kent, and stirred up the people of his neighbourhood in behalf of their monarch. He was chosen by the whole body of the county to deliver to the House of Commons a petition for settling the government, and restoring the king to his rights. For presenting this petition he was committed to the Gate House at Westminster, and kept in strict confinement for nearly four months. Here he wrote his famous lyric, "To ALTHEA," which, Southey says, will last as long as the language. He was at length released, on giving bail to the amount of forty thousand pounds, but was restricted from stirring beyond the lines of communication, without a pass from the Speaker. This forced inactivity chafed his proud spirit, and drove him into living extravagantly to keep up the credit of the king. He furnished his two brothers, Frank and William, with men and arms for the royal cause, and sent his third brother, Dudley Posthumous, to Holland to study tactics and fortification. He devoted himself to the king, body and soul, only reserving his heart, which about this time was taken captive by Lucy Sacheverel, the Lucasta of his poems. She was rich and beautiful, we are told, but not so steadfast as she should have been; for when Lovelace, who, after the rendition of the Oxford garrison in 1646, formed a regiment and entered the service of the French king, was wounded at Dunkirk, she engaged herself to another. It is true that Lovelace was reported killed, and that a year or two elapsed before he reappeared; still she should have waited until it was