ANNE, MARCHIONESS OF WHARTON,

died 1685,

Was the daughter of Sir Henry Lee, of Ditchley, in Oxfordshire, and first wife of Thomas Wharton, Esq. afterwards Marquis of Wharton.

Waller has complimented her poetical powers in two copies of verses, and wrote his Cantos of Divine Poesy in consequence of seeing her paraphrase of the 53d chapter of Isaiah. Her effusions (which are but few, and scattered in different Miscellanies,) are by no means despicable.

Verses on the Snuff of a Candle, made in sickness.

SEE there the taper's dim and doleful light,
In gloomy waves silently rolls about,
And represents to my dim weary sight,

My light of life almost as near burnt out.

Ah health! best part and substance of our joy, (For without thee 'tis nothing but a shade,) Why dost thou partially thyself employ,

Whilst thy proud foes as partially invade?

What we, who ne'er enjoy, so fondly seek,

Those who possess thee still, almost despise;

To gain immortal glory, raise the weak,

Taught by their former want thy worth to prize.

Dear, melancholy Muse! my constant guide, Charm this coy health back to my fainting heart, Or I'll accuse thee of vain-glorious pride,

And swear thou dost but feign the moving art.

But why do I upbraid thee, gentle Muse,

Who for all sorrows mak'st me some amends? Alas! our sickly minds sometimes abuse

Our best physicians and our dearest friends.

SONG.

How hardly I conceal'd my tears?
How oft did I complain?

When, many tedious days, my fears
Told me I lov'd in vain.

But now my joys as wild are grown,
And hard to be conceal'd;
Sorrow may make a silent moan,
But joy will be reveal'd.

I tell it to the bleating flocks,

To every stream and tree,

And bless the hollow murmuring rocks

For echoing back to me.

Thus you may see with how much joy We want, we wish, believe;

"Tis hard such passion to destroy, But easy to deceive.

TAYLOR.

In a Miscellany, being a collection of Poems, by several Hands, published by Aphra Behn, in 1685, are the three following pieces, "made by Mrs. Taylor," of whom I can give no account.

SONG.

YE virgin powers, defend my heart
From amorous looks and smiles,
From saucy Love, or nicer Art,
Which most our sex beguiles;

From sighs, and vows, from aweful fears
That do to Pity move,

From speaking silence, and from tears,

Those springs that water Love.

But if thro' Passion I grow blind,

Let Honour be my guide,

And where frail Nature seems inclin'd,

There fix a guard of Pride.

A heart whose flames are seen tho'

Needs

every

Virtue's aid,

pure,

And those who think themselves secure,

The soonest are betray'd.

To MERTILL, who desired her to speak to CLORINDA of his Love.

MERTILL, tho' my heart should break

In granting thy desire,

To cold Clorinda I will speak,
And warm her with my fire.

To save thee from approaching harm,
My death I will obey;

To save thee sinking in the storm,
I'll cast myself away.

May her charms equal those of thine,

No words can e'er express,

And let her love be great as mine,
Which thee would only bless!

May you still prove her faithful slave
And she so kind and true,

She nothing may desire to have,

Or fear to lose — but you.