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What does this cruelty create?
Is 't the intrigue of love or fate?

8 Had friendship ne'er been known to men,

(The ghost at last confessed)
The world had then a stranger been

To all that heaven possessed.
But could it all be here acquired,
Not heaven itself would be desired.

A FRIEND. 1 Love, nature's plot, this great creation's soul,

The being and the harmony of things, Doth still preserve and propagate the whole,

From whence man's happiness and safety springs: The earliest, whitest, blessed'st times did draw From her alone their universal law.

2 Friendship's an abstract of this noble flame,

'Tis love refined and purged from all its dross, The next to angels' love, if not the same,

As strong in passion is, though not so gross:
It antedates a glad eternity,
And is an heaven in epitome.

3 Essential honour must be in a friend,

Not such as every breath fans to and fro; But born within, is its own judge and end, And dares not sin though sure that none should

know. Where friendship's spoke, honesty's understood; For none can be a friend that is not good.

4 Thick waters show no images of things;

Friends are each other's mirrors, and should be
Clearer than crystal or the mountain springs,

And free from clouds, design, or flattery.
For vulgar souls no part of friendship share;
Poets and friends are born to what they are.

MARGARET, DUCHESS OF NEWCASTLE. This lady, if not more of a woman than Mrs Philips, was considerably more of a poet. She was born (probably) about 1625. She was the daughter of Sir Charles Lucas, and became a maidof-honour to Henrietta Maria. Accompanying the Queen to France, she met with the Marquis, afterwards Duke of Newcastle, and married him at Paris in 1645. They removed to Antwerp, and there, in 1653, this lady published a volume, entitled 'Poems and Fancies. The pair aided each other in their studies, and the result was a number of enormous folios of poems, plays, speeches, and philosophical disquisitions. These volumes were, we are told, great favourites of Coleridge and Charles Lamb, for the sake, we presume, of the wild sparks of insight and genius which break irresistibly through the scholastic smoke and bewildered nonsense. When Charles II. was restored, tha Marquis and his wife returned to England, and spent their life in great harmony. She died in 1673, leaving behind her some beautiful fantasias, where the meaning is often finer than the music, such as the 'Pastime and Recreation of Fairies in Fairyland.' Her poetry, particularly her contrasted pictures of Mirth and Melancholy, presents fine accumulations of imagery drawn direct from nature, and shewn now in brightest sunshine, and now in softest moonlight, as the change of her subject and her tone of feeling require.

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Her voice is low, and gives a hollow sound;
She hates the light, and is in darkness found;

Or sits with blinking lamps, or tapers small,
Which various shadows make against the wall.
She loves nought else but noise which discord makes,
As croaking frogs, whose dwelling is in lakes;
The raven's hoarse, the mandrake's hollow groan,
And shrieking owls which fly i' the night alone;
The tolling bell, which for the dead rings out;
A mill, where rushing waters run about;
The roaring winds, which shake the cedars tall,
Plough up the seas, and beat the rocks withal.
She loves to walk in the still moonshine night,
And in a thick dark grove she takes delight;
In hollow caves, thatched houses, and low cells,
She loves to live, and there alone she dwells.

MELANCHOLY DESCRIBING HERSELF. I dwell in groves that gilt are with the sun; Sit on the banks by which clear waters run; In summers hot, down in a shade I lie; My music is the buzzing of a fly; I walk in meadows, where grows fresh green grass; In fields, where corn is high, I often pass; Walk up the hills, where round I prospects see, Some brushy woods, and some all champaigns be; Returning back, I in fresh pastures go, To hear how sheep do bleat, and cows do low; o, In winter cold, when nipping frosts come on, Then I do live in a small house alone; Although 'tis plain, yet cleanly 'tis within, Like to a soul that's pure, and clear from sin; And there I dwell in quiet and still peace, Not filled with cares how riches to increase; I wish nor seek for vain and fruitless pleasures; No riches are, but what the mind intreasures.

Thus am I solitary, live alone,
Yet better loved, the more that I am known;
And though my face ill-favoured at first sight,
After acquaintance, it will give delight.
Refuse me not, for I shall constant be;
Maintain your credit and your dignity.

THOMAS STANLEY. THOMAS STANLEY, like Thomas Brown in later days, was both a philosopher and a poet; but his philosophical reputation at the time eclipsed his poetical. He was the only son of Sir

Thomas Stanley of Camberlow Green, in Hertfordshire, and was born in 1625. He received his education at Pembroke College, Oxford ; and after travelling for some years abroad, he took up his abode in the Middle Temple. Here he seems to have spent the rest of his life in patient and multifarious studies. He made translations of some merit from Anacreon, Bion, Moschus, and the “ Kisses' of Secundus, as well as from Marino, Boscan, Tristan, and Gongora. He wrote a work of great pretensions as a compilation, entitled . The History of Philosophy,' containing the lives, opinions, actions, and discourses of philosophers of every sect, of which he published the first volume in 1655, and completed it in a fourth in 1662. It is rather a vast collection of the materials for a history, than a history itself. He is a Cudworth in magnitude and learning, but not in strength and comprehension, and is destitute of precision and clearness of style. Stanley also wrote some poems, which discover powers that might have been better employed in original composition than in translation. His style, rich of itself, is enriched to repletion by conceits, and sometimes by voluptuous sentiments and language. He adds a new flush to the cheek of Anacreon himself; and his grapes are so heavy, that not a staff, but a wain were required to bear them. Stanley died in 1678.

1 Roses in breathing forth their scent,

Or stars their borrowed ornament;
Nymphs in their watery sphere that move,
Or angels in their orbs above;
The winged chariot of the light,
Or the slow, silent wheels of night;
The shade which from the swifter sun

Doth in a swifter motion run,
Or souls that their eternal rest do keep,
Make far less noise than Celia's breath in sleer.

2 But if the angel which inspires

This subtle flame with active fires,
Should mould this breath to words, and those
Into a harmony dispose,
The music of this heavenly sphere
Would steal each soul (in) at the ear,
And into plants and stones infuse

A life that cherubim would choose,
And with new powers invert the laws of fate,
Kill those that live, and dead things animate.

SPEAKING AND KISSING. 1 The air which thy smooth voice doth break,

Into my soul like lightning flies;
My life retires while thou dost speak,

And thy soft breath its room supplies,

2 Lost in this pleasing ecstasy,

I join my trembling lips to thine,
And back receive that life from thee

Which I so gladly did resign.

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