31.

To God glory, thanks, and praise,
I will render all my days,

Who hath blest me many ways,
Shedding on me gracious rays.

32.

To me grace, O Father, send,
On thee wholly to depend,
That all may to thy glory tend;
So let me live, so let me end.

33.

Now to the true Eternal King,

Not seen with human eye,

Th' immortal, only wise, true God Be praise perpetually!

KATHERINE PHILIPS,

Born 1631, died 1664,

Known as a poetess by the name of Orinda, was the daughter of John Fowles of Bucklersbury, a London merchant. She married James Philips of the Priory, of Cardigan; nor did her devotion to the Muses (which had shewn itself at an early age) prevent her from discharging, in the most exemplary manner, the duties of domestic life. Her poems, which had been dispersed among her friends in manuscript, were first printed without her knowledge or consent; and the circumstance is said to have occasioned a fit of illness to the sensitive authoress. To this amiable woman Jeremy Taylor addressed a Discourse on the Nature, Offices, and Measures of Friendship, with Rules for conducting it: she is praised more than once by Dryden; and her death, caused by the small-pox, was mourned by Cowley in a long Pindaric.

The verses of Orinda appear to have been hastily composed: if they do not frequently gleam with poetry, they are generally impregnated with thought.

Against Pleasure,

AN ODE.

THERE'S no such thing as pleasure here,

'Tis all a perfect cheat,

Which does but shine and disappear,
Whose charm is but deceit;

The empty bribe of yielding souls,
Which first betrays, and then controuls.

'Tis true, it looks at distance fair,

But if we do approach,

The fruit of Sodom will impair,

And perish at a touch;

It being than in fancy less,
And we expect more than possess.

For by our pleasures we are cloy'd,
And so desire is done;

Or else, like rivers, they make wide
The channels where they run;
And either way true bliss destroys,
Making us narrow, or our joys.

We covet pleasure easily,

But ne'er true bliss possess; For many things must make it be,

But one may make it less.

Nay, were our state as we could chuse it,

"Twould be consum'd by fear to lose it.

What art thou then, thou winged air,
More weak and swift than fame?
Whose next successor is despair,

And its attendant shame.

The experienc'd-prince then reason had,
Who said of pleasure "it is mad."

To Lady ELIZABETH BOYLE, singing a Song of which ORINDA was the Author.

SUBDUING fair! what will you win,
To use a needless dart?
Why then so many to take in
One undefended heart?

I came expos'd to all your charms,
'Gainst which, the first half hour,

I had no will to take up arms,

And in the next, no power.

How can you choose but win the day?
Who can resist your siege?

Who in one action know the way

To vanquish and oblige?

Your voice, which can in melting strains
Teach beauty to be blind,

Confines me yet in stronger chains,

By being soft and kind.

Whilst you my trivial fancy sing,
You it to wit refine,

As leather once stamp'd by a king

Became a current coin.

By this

my verse is sure to gain

Eternity with men,

Which by your voice it will obtain,
Though never by my pen.

I'd rather in your favour live,

Than in a lasting name,

And a much greater rate would give
For happiness than fame.

To my ANTENOR, March 16, 1660-1.

My dear Antenor, now give o'er,

For

my sake talk of graves no more;