Leaving her guest half won and wanton-eyed. He had forgot his herb: cunning delight Had so bewitched his ears, and bleared his sight, And captivated all his senses so, That he was not himself; nor did he know What place he was in, or how he came there, But greedily he feeds his eye and ear With what would ruin him;-- * * * * * Next unto his view She represents a banquet, ushered in By such a shape as she was sure would win His appetite to taste; so like she was To his Clarinda, both in shape and face; So voiced, so habited, of the same gait And comely gesture; on her brow in state Sat such a princely majesty, as he Had noted in Clarinda; save that she Had a more wanton eye, that here and there Rolled up and down, not settling any where. Down on the ground she falls his hand to kiss, And with her tears bedews it; cold as ice He felt her lips, that yet inflamed him so, That he was all on fire the truth to know, Whether she was the same she did appear, Or whether some fantastic form it were, Fashioned in his imagination By his still working thoughts, so fixed upon His loved Clarinda, that his fancy strove, Even with her shadow, to express his love. CATHARINE PHILLIPS. Very little is known of the life of this lady-poet. She was born in 1631. Her maiden name was Fowler. She married James Phillips, Esq., of the Priory of Cardigan. Her poems, published under the name of "Orinda," were very popular in her lifetime, although it was said they were published without her consent. She translated two of the tragedies of Corneille, and left a volume of letters to Sir Charles Cotterell. These, however, did not appear till after her death. She died of small-pox --then a deadly disease--in 1664. She seems to have been a favourite alike with the wits and the divines of her age. Jeremy Taylor addressed to her his "Measures and Offices of Friendship;" Dryden praised her; and Flatman and Cowley, besides imitating her poems while she was living, paid rhymed tributes to her memory when dead. Her verses are never commonplace, and always sensible, if they hardly attain to the measure and the stature of lofty poetry, THE INQUIRY. 1 If we no old historian's name Authentic will admit, But think all said of friendship's fame But poetry or wit; Yet what's revered by minds so pure Must be a bright idea sure. 2 But as our immortality By inward sense we find, Judging that if it could not be, It would not be designed: So here how could such copies fall, If there were no original? 3 But if truth be in ancient song, Or story we believe; If the inspired and greater throng Have scorned to deceive; There have been hearts whose friendship gave Them thoughts at once both soft and grave. 4 Among that consecrated crew Some more seraphic shade Lend me a favourable clew, Now mists my eyes invade. Why, having filled the world with fame, Left you so little of your flame?