The business of the kitchen's great,

For it is fit that men should eat;

Nor was it there denied.

15 Just in the nick the cook knock'd thrice, And all the waiters in a trice

His summons did obey;

Each serving-man with dish in hand,
March'd boldly up, like our train'd band,
Presented and away.

16 When all the meat was on the table,
What man of knife, or teeth, was able
To stay to be entreated?

And this the very reason was,
Before the parson could say grace,
The company were seated.

17 Now hats fly off, and youths carouse;
Healths first go round, and then the house,
The bride's came thick and thick;
And when 'twas named another's health,
Perhaps he made it hers by stealth,

And who could help it, Dick?

18 O' the sudden up they rise and dance;
Then sit again, and sigh and glance:
Then dance again and kiss.
Thus sev'ral ways the time did pass,
Whil'st every woman wish'd her place,
And every man wish'd his.

19 By this time all were stol'n aside
To counsel and undress the bride;

But that he must not know;

But yet 'twas thought he guess'd her mind,
And did not mean to stay behind

Above an hour or so.

20 When in he came (Dick), there she lay, Like new-fall'n snow melting away,

"Twas time, I trow, to part.

Kisses were now the only stay,

Which soon she gave, as who would say,
Good-bye, with all my heart.

21 But just as heavens would have to cross it, In came the bridemaids with the posset;

The bridegroom eat in spite;

For had he left the women to 't

It would have cost two hours to do 't,

Which were too much that night.

22 At length the candle 's out, and now All that they had not done, they do! What that is, who can tell?

But I believe it was no more

Than thou and I have done before

With Bridget and with Nell!

SONG.

I pray thee send me back my heart,
Since I can not have thine,

For if from yours you will not part,
Why then shouldst thou have mine?

Yet now I think on 't, let it lie,

To find it were in vain;
For thou'st a thief in either eye

Would steal it back again.

Why should two hearts in one breast lie,
And yet not lodge together?

O love! where is thy sympathy,

If thus our breasts thou sever?

But love is such a mystery,

I cannot find it out;

For when I think I'm best resolved,
I then am in most doubt.

Then farewell care, and farewell woe,
I will no longer pine;

For I'll believe I have her heart
As much as she has mine.

WILLIAM CARTWRIGHT.

CARTWRIGHT was born in 1611, and was the son of an innkeeper-once a gentleman-in Cirencester. He became a King's scholar at Westminster, and afterwards took orders at Oxford, where he distinguished himself, according to Wood, as a 'most florid and seraphic preacher.' One is reminded of the description given of Jeremy Taylor, who, when he first began to preach, by his 'young and florid beauty, and his sublime and raised discourses, made men take him for an angel newly descended from the climes of Paradise.' Cartwright was appointed, through his friend Bishop Duppa, Succentor of the Church of Salisbury in 1642. He was one of a council of war appointed by the University of Oxford, for providing troops in the King's cause, to protect, or some said to overawe, the Universities. He was imprisoned by the Parliamentary forces on account of his zeal in the Royal cause, but soon liberated on bail. In 1643, he was appointed Junior Proctor of his University, and also Reader in Metaphysics. At this time he is said to have studied sixteen hours a-day. This, however, seems

to have weakened his constitution, and rendered him an easy victim to what was called the camp-fever, then prevalent in Oxford. He died December 23, 1643, aged thirty-two. The King, then in Oxford, went into mourning for him. His works. were published in 1651, and to them were prefixed fifty copies of encomiastic verses from the wits and poets of the time. They scarcely justify the praises they have received, being somewhat crude and harsh, and all of them occasional. His private character, his eloquence as a preacher, and his zeal as a Royalist, seem to have supplemented his claims as a poet. He enjoyed, too, in his earlier life, the friendship of Ben Jonson, who used to say of him, 'My son Cartwright writes all like a man;' and such a sentence from such an authority was at that time fame.

LOVE'S DARTS.

1 Where is that learned wretch that knows
What are those darts the veil'd god throws?
Oh, let him tell me ere I die

When 'twas he saw or heard them fly;

Whether the sparrow's plumes, or dove's,
Wing them for various loves;
And whether gold or lead,
Quicken or dull the head:

I will anoint and keep them warm,
And make the weapons heal the harm.

2 Fond that I am to ask! whoe'er
Did yet see thought? or silence hear?
Safe from the search of human eye
These arrows (as their ways are) fly:
The flights of angels part
Not air with so much art;
And snows on streams, we may
Say, louder fall than they.

So hopeless I must now endure,
And neither know the shaft nor cure.

3 A sudden fire of blushes shed

To dye white paths with hasty red;
A glance's lightning swiftly thrown,
Or from a true or seeming frown;
A subtle taking smile
From passion, or from guile;
The spirit, life, and grace

Of motion, limbs, and face;
These misconceit entitles darts,
And tears the bleedings of our hearts.

4 But as the feathers in the wing

Unblemish'd are, and no wounds bring,
And harmless twigs no bloodshed know,
Till art doth fit them for the bow;
So lights of flowing graces

Sparkling in several places,
Only adorn the parts,

Till that we make them darts;
Themselves are only twigs and quills:
We give them shape and force for ills.

5 Beauty's our grief, but in the ore,

We mint, and stamp, and then adore:
Like heathen we the image crown,
And indiscreetly then fall down:
Those graces all were meant
Our joy, not discontent;
But with untaught desires
We turn those lights to fires,

Thus Nature's healing herbs we take,
And out of cures do poisons make.