XI.

Vulcan now makes his anvil ring,

Dick whistles loud, and Maud doth sing,

And Silvio, with his bugle horn,

Winds an imprime unto the morn.

XII.

Now through the morning doors behold
Phoebus array'd in burning gold,

Lashing his fiery steeds, displays
His warm and all-enlight'ning rays.

XIII.

Now each one to his work prepares,
All that have hands are labourers,
And manufacturers of each trade,
By opening shops are open laid.

XIV.

Hob yokes his oxen to the team,
The angler goes unto the stream,
The woodman to the purlieus hies,
And lab'ring bees to load their thighs.

XV.

Fair Amarillis drives her flocks,
All night safe folded from the fox,
To flow'ry downs, where Colin stays,
To court her with his roundelays.

XVI.

The traveller now leaves his inn,
A new day's journey to begin,
As he would post it with the day,
And early rising makes good way.

XVII.

The slick-faced school-boy satchel takes, And with slow pace small riddance makes; For why, the haste we make, you know, To knowledge and to virtue's slow.

XVIII.

The fore-horse gingles on the road,
The waggoner lugs on his load,
The field with busy people snies,
And city rings with various cries.

XIX.

The world is now a busy swarm,

All doing good, or doing harm;

But let's take heed our acts be true,
For Heaven's eye sees all we do.

XX.

None can that piercing sight evade,
It penetrates the darkest shade,

And sin, though it could 'scape the eye,
Would be discover'd by the cry.

APHRA BEHN.

1689.

Aphra Johnson, for such was her maiden name, was a woman of rare talents, who has in latter times been too severely condemned for the immorality of her writings, which should be considered as more characteristic of her age than their author. She was not rewarded for her state services which were really important, and it was her alternative to write or starve. Her faults weigh lightly in the just balance with her virtues. She was equal minded in a checquered life; generous, "serviceable to her friends to the utmost of her power, and could sooner forgive an injury than do one."

ARMIDA:

Or, the Fair Gill.

Nor Circe nor Medea had such art,
Or pow'rful charms to captivate a heart;
Nor Syren's voices with so pleasing sound,
Lull those asleep whom they design to wound.
For a new conquest all her skill she tries,
But yet by different ways to gain the prize,

As time and humours fit, her looks appear
Bashful sometimes, and full of Virgin fear.
Then, earnest and lascivious, as she finds
Her beauty work upon her lover's minds,
When e're the bashful youth fears his success:
She gives the trembler hopes by soft address,
Advances with more sweetness in her face,
And fires him with some kind peculiar grace,
Sooths his fond heart, and dissipates his fear,
And thaws the ice her scorns had gather'd there.
But if the God of Love infuse his dart,
And captivate a bold and forward heart,
Her eyes assume their state, and her neglect
Creates a doubtful fear mixt with respect.
Yet lest too much of scorn produce despair,
Some glance of kindness in her eyes appear,
While hardly gain'd she makes the blessing dear.
But still the cloud she cunningly declines,

And fits her looks to second her designs.
Sometimes she seems to smother sighs with pain,
And calls up tears, then turns 'em back again.
As if the softning tide she wou'd not shew,
But that in spite of all her pride, they flow.
And all to make a thousand easie hearts
To weep in earnest by her coz'ning arts.
And with the flames of Pity tempers so
The darts of Love, none can resist the blow.