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But never told How hard they were to get, how difficult to hold.

Thus by the arts of this most sly

Deluder was I caught,
To her betwitching bondage brought.

Eternal constancy we swore,
A thousand times our vows were doubled o'er:
And as we did in our entrancements-lie,
I thought no pleasure e'er was wrought so high,
No pair so happy, as my Muse and I.

But in this most transporting height,
Whence I look'd down, and laught at fate,
All of a sudden I was alter'd grown;.
I round me look'd, and found myself alone;
My faithless Muse, my faithless Muse, was

gone;
I try'd if I a verse could frame:
Oft I in vain invoked my Clio's name.

The more I strove, the more I faild, I chafed, I bit my pen, curst my dull skull, and

raild, Resolved to force m' untoward thought, and at the

last prevail'd.

A line came forth, but such a one,
No travelling matron in her child-birth pains,

Full of the joyful hopes to bear a son,
Was more astonish'd at th' unlook'd-for shape

Of some deform'd baboon, or ape,
Than I was at the hideous issue of my brains.

I tore my paper, stabb'd my pen,

And swore I'd never write again, Resolved to be a doating fool no more ;

But when my reckoning I began to make, I found too long I'd slept, and was too late awake; I found m' ungrateful Muse, for whose false sake

I did myself undo,

Has robb'd me of my dearest store, My precious time, my friends, and reputation too; And left me helpless, friendless, very proud, and

poor.

*

ANNE KILLEGREW.

London, 1660–1685.

Dryden has immortalized this Lady. She was the daugh.

ter of Dr. Henry Killegrew, Master of the Savoy, and Prebendary of Westminster. Her paintings promised as much as her poetry ; her genius was acknowledged and rewarded; but the small-pox carly terminated a life of industry, and virtue, and happiness.

The Complaint of a Lover,

Seest thou younder craggy rock,

Whose head o'erlooks the swelling main, Where never shepherd fed his flock,

Or careful peasant sow'd his grain ?

No wholesome herb

grows on the same, Or bird of day will on it rest; 'Tis barren as the hopeless flame, That scorches my tormented breast,

Deep underneath a cave does lie,

The entrance hid with dismal yew, Where Phebus never shew'd his eye,

Or cheerful day yet pierced through.

In that dark melancholy cell,

(Retreate and sollace to my woe) Love, sad Despair, and I, do dwell,

The springs from whence my griefs do flow.

Treacherous love that did appear,

(When he at first approach't my heart), Drest in a garb far from severe,

Or threatening ought of future smart.

So innocent those charms then seern'd,

When Rosalinda first I spy'd, Ah! who would them have deadly deem'd ?

But flowers do often serpents hide.

Beneath those sweets concealed lay

To Love the cruel foe Disdain, With which alas ! she does repay,

My constant and deserving pain.

When I in tears have spent the night,

With sighs I usher in the sun,

Who never saw a sadder sight,

In all the courses he has run,

Sleep, which to others ease does prove,

Comes unto me, alas, in vain : For in my dreams I am in love,

And in them too she does disdain.

Sometimes ťamuse my sorrow, I

Unto the hollow rocks repair, And loudly to the echo cry,

Ah! gentle nymph come ease my care.

Thou who, times past, a lover wert,

Ah! pity me, who now am so, And by a sense of thine own smart,

Alleviate my mighty woe.

Come flatter then, or chide my grief;

Catch my last words, and call me fool; Or say, she loves, for my relief;

My passion either sooth, or school.

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