Besides these plays, Mr. Coxeter says, he is author of the two following, which were never printed till with his works in 2 vols. 8vo. 1719, dedicated by Briscoe the bookseller to the duke of Chandois.

The Grumbler, a Comedy of three acts, scene Paris.

The Tyrant King of Crete, a Tragedy.

Sedley’s poems, however amorously tender and delicate, yet have not much strength; nor do they afford great marks of genius.  The softness of his verses is denominated by the Duke of Buckingham, Sedley’s Witchcraft.  It was an art too successful in those days to propagate the immoralities of the times, but it must be owned that in point of chastity he excels Dorset, and Rochester; who as they conceived lewdly, wrote in plain English, and did not give themselves any trouble to wrap up their ribbaldry in a dress tollerably decent.  But if Sedley was the more chaste, I know not if he was the less pernicious writer:  for that pill which is gilded will be swallowed more readily, and with less reluctance, than if tendered in its own disgustful colours.  Sedley insinuates gently into the heart, without giving any alarm, but is no less fraught with poison, than are those whose deformity bespeaks their mischief.

It would be tedious to enumerate here all the poems of Sir Charles Sedley; let it suffice to say, that they are printed in two small volumes along with his plays, and consist of translations of Virgil’s Pastorals, original Pastorals, Prologues, Songs, Epilogues, and little occasional pieces.

We shall present the reader with an original pastoral of Sir Charles’s, as a specimen of his works.

He lived to the beginning of Queen Anne’s reign, and died at an age near 90; his wit and humour continuing to the last.

A Pastoral Dialogue between THIRSIS and Strephon.

  THIRSIS.

    Strephon, O Strephon, once the jolliest lad,
  That with shrill pipe did ever mountain glad;
  Whilome the foremost at our rural plays,
  The pride and envy of our holidays: 
  Why dost thou sit now musing all alone,
  Teaching the turtles, yet a sadder moan? 
  Swell’d with thy tears, why does the neighbouring brook
  Bear to the ocean, what she never took? 
  Thy flocks are fair and fruitful, and no swain,
  Than thee, more welcome to the hill or plain.

Strephon.

    I could invite the wolf, my cruel guest,
  And play unmov’d, while he on all should feast: 
  I cou’d endure that very swain out-run,
  Out-threw, out-wrestled, and each nymph shou’d shun
  The hapless Strephon.——­

  THIRSIS.

    Tell me then thy grief,
  And give it, in complaints, some short relief.

Strephon.

    Had killing mildews nipt my rising corn,
  My lambs been all found dead, as soon as born;
  Or raging plagues run swift through every hive,
  And left not one industrious bee alive;
  Had early winds, with an hoarse winter’s found
  Scattered my rip’ning fruit upon the ground: 
  Unmov’d, untoucht, I cou’d the loss sustain,
  And a few days expir’d, no more complain.