XX.

A REASONABLE LOVER.

IF woman could be fair and never fond,

Or that their beauty might continue still, I would not marvel though they made men bond By service long to purchase their goodwill: But when I see how frail these creatures are, I laugh that men forget themselves so far.

To mark what choice they make and how they change,

How, leaving best, the worst they choose out still ; And how, like haggards wild, about they range, And scorning season follow after will!

Who would not shake such buzzards from the fist And let them fly (fair fools!) which way they list? Yet for our sport we fawn and flatter both,

To pass the time when nothing else can please : And train them on to yield by subtle oath

The sweet content that gives such humour ease: And then we say, when we their follies try, "To play with fools, Oh, what a fool was I!" Edward, Earl of Oxford,

XXI.

FROM "HYMEN'S TRIUMPH."

LOVE is a sickness full of woes,

All remedies refusing ;

A plant that with most cutting grows,
Most barren with best using.
Why so?

More we enjoy it, more it dies ;

If not enjoyed, it sighing cries,

Hey, ho!

Love is a torment of the mind,
A tempest everlasting;

And Jove hath made it of a kind
Not well, nor full, nor fasting.
Why so?

More we enjoy it, more it dies;
If not enjoyed, it sighing cries,
Hey, ho!-Samuel Daniel.

XXII.

TIME'S TRIUMPH.

WHEN I have seen by Time's fell hand defaced
The rich proud cost of out-worn buried age;
When sometime lofty towers I see down-razed,
And brass eternal slave to mortal rage;
When I have seen the hungry ocean gain
Advantage on the kingdom of the shore,
And the firm soil win of the watery main,
Increasing store with loss, and loss with store ;
When I have seen such interchange of state,
Or state itself confounded to decay,
Ruin hath taught me thus to ruminate-

That Time will come and take my Love away:

This thought is as a death, which cannot choose But weep to have that which it fears to lose.

Shakespeare.

XXIII.

SAPPHO'S SONG.

O CRUEL Love! on thee I lay

My curse, which shall strike blind the day
Never may sleep with velvet hand

Charm thine eyes with sacred wand;

Thy jailors shall be hopes and fears;
Thy prison-mates, groans, sighs, and tears;
Thy play to wear out weary times,
Fantastic passions, vows, and rhymes;

Thy bread be frowns; thy drink be gall;
Such as when you Phao Call.

The bed thou liest on be despair;

Thy sleep, fond dreams; thy dreams, long

care;

Hope (like thy fool) at thy bed's head,

Mocks thee, till madness strikes thee dead, As Phao, thou dost me, with thy proud eyes. In thee poor Sappho lives, for thee she dics. John Lely.

XXIV.

A SEA DIRGE.

FULL fathom five thy father lies;
Of his bones are coral made;
Those are pearls that were his eyes :
Nothing of him that doth fade

But doth suffer a sea-change
Into something rich and strange.
Sea-nymphs hourly ring his knell :
Ding-dong!-

Hark! now I hear them,-

Ding-dong, bell.-Shakespeare.

XXV.

A LAND DIRGE.

CALL for the robin-redbreast and the wren,

Since o'er shady groves they hover,
And with leaves and flowers do cover
The friendless bodies of unburied men.

Call unto his funeral dole

The ant, the field-mouse, and the mole,

To rear him hillocks that shall keep him

warm,

And, (when gay tombs are robb'd,) sustain no

harm;

But keep the wolf from thence, that's foe to

men,

For with his nails he'll dig them up again.

XXVI.

FAWNIA.

J. Webster.

Ан, were she pitiful as she is fair,

Or but as mild as she is seeming so,

Then were my hopes greater than my despair, Then all the world were heaven, nothing woe. Ah, were her heart relenting as her hand,

That seems to melt even with the mildest touch, Then knew I where to seat me in a land,

Under wide heavens, but yet (I know) not such. So as she shows, she seems the budding rose, Yet sweeter far than is an earthly flower, Sovereign of beauty, like the spray she grows, Compassed she is with thorns and cankered flower,

Yet were she willing to be plucked and worn,
She would be gathered, though she grew on thorn.

Ah, when she sings, all music else be still,
For none must be compared to her note;
Ne'er breathed such glee from Philomela's bill,
Nor from the morning-singer's swelling throat.

Ah, when she riseth from her blissful bed,

She comforts all the world, as doth the sun,

And at her sight the night's foul vapour's fled;
When she is set, the gladsome day is done.
O glorious sun, imagine me the west,

Shine in my arms, and set thou in my breast!

Robert Greene.

XXVII.

DISAPPOINTED LOVE.

WHENCE Comes my love? Oh, heart, disclose;
'Twas from cheeks that shame the rose;
From lips that spoil the ruby's praise;
From eyes that mock the diamond's blaze.
Whence comes my woe, as freely own;
Ah me! 'twas from a heart like stone.

The blushing cheek speaks modest mind,
The lips befitting words most kind;
The eye does tempt to love's desire,
And seems to say, 'tis Cupid's fire;

Yet all so fair, but speak my moan,
Since nought doth say the heart of stone.

Why thus, my love, so kind bespeak

Sweet lip, sweet eye, sweet blushing cheek,
Yet not a heart to save my pain?
Oh, Venus! take thy gifts again;
Make not so fair to cause our moan,
Or make a heart that's like our own.

J. Harington.

XXVIII.

SONG FROM "TWO GENTLEMEN OF VERONA."

WHO is Silvia? what is she,

That all our swains commend her?