WILLIAM MOUNTFORD.

1659-1692.

An actor of great eminence, who was murdered by Captain Hill and Lord Mohun. He wrote six Dramatick Pieces, and many Songs, Prologues, and Epilogues, which are scattered in Dryden's Miscellanies.

SONG,

In "The Injured Lovers."

LUCINDA close or veil your eye,

Where thousand loves in ambush lye ;
Where darts are pointed with such skill,
They're sure to hurt, if not to kill.
Let pity move thee to seem blind,
Lest seeing, thou destroy mankind.

II.

Lucinda, hide that swelling breast,
The Phoenix else will change her nest:

Yet do not, for, when she expires, Her heat may light in the soft fires Of love and pity, so that I

By this one way may thee enjoy.

1

SIR WILLIAM KILLIGREW.

Hanworth, Middlesex, 1605—1693,

Sir William suffered in his fortunes for his attachment to Charles I. and was one of the few sufferers whom Charles II. recompenced; for that worthless monarch seems to have imagined that a supererogation of vengeance would atone for his deficiency of gratitude.

He wrote five Plays and two volumes, which were the productions of a more serious age, when he had retired from Court.

1. The Artless Midnight Thoughts of a Gentleman at Court; who, for many years, built on sand, which every blast of cross fortune has defaced; but now he has laid new foundations on the rock of his salvation, 1684. Of this Cibber says, that besides 233 thoughts in it, there are some small pieces of poetry. If he has really given us two hundred and thirty three thoughts in one volume, we may recommend Sir William as a worthy object of imitation; or rather admire the improvement introduced into the book manufactory, of making volumes without any thoughts at all.

2. Midnight and Daily Thoughts in Verse and Prose. 1694. This was printed after his death.

On the Fear of Death.

WHY dost thou shrink, my soul, what terrour see, To cause such high impiety,

That thus from age to age thou would'st endure ›
Pray'st thou for this, for such a cure,

As may more time in vanity mis-spend?
To what doth this averseness tend,

That thus thou still enamour'd art
Of thy disease and smart?

Or dost thou grudge the dirty grave
Should thy dead carcase have?

This giant death that hath so long controll'd
The world, submits unto the bold;

His threatening dart, nor point nor sharpness hath
To men of piety and faith.

Thou know'st all this, my soul, yet still dost cry, Thou would'st not die, and know'st not why.

If thou be'st frighted by a name,

Then thou art much to blame,

And poorly weak, if terrour-struck
By a fantastick look.

Women and children teach thee a disdain,
To fear the passage, or the pain :

The ancient heathens courted death to be

Remembered by posterity;

And shall those heathens then more courage show, Than thou that dost thy Maker know?

The misbelieving christian may

Shake at his latter day;

Till then, not mindful of his sin,

Nor the danger he is in.

But thou that hast conversed with God and death, In speculation, shall thy breath

Unwillingly expire into his hand,

That comes to fetch it by command ?

From God that made thee, art thou loth to be,
Possess'd of thy felicity,

Because thy guide looks pale, and must
Convey thy flesh to dust?
Though that to worms converted be

What is all this to thee?

Thou shalt not feel death's sting, but instant have
Full joys and triumph o'er the grave,
Where thy long-loved companion flesh shall rest,
Until it be refined, new drest

For thy next wearing, in that holy place,

That heaven, where thou shalt face to face