Though my songs be somewhat strange, And speak such words as touch my change, Blame not my Lute!

My Lute, alas! doth not offend,
Though that perforce he must agree
To sound such tunes as I intend

To sing to them that heareth me;
Then though my songs be somewhat plain,
And toucheth some that use to feign,
Blame not my Lute!

My Lute and strings may not deny,
But as I strike they must obey;
Break not them so wrongfully,

But wreak thyself some other way; And though the songs which I indite Do quit thy change with rightful spite, Blame not my Lute!

Spite asketh spite, and changing change, And falsèd faith must needs be known; The faults so great, the case so strange;

Of right it must abroad be blown : Then since that by thine own desert My songs do tell how true thou art, Blame not my Lute!

Blame but thyself that hast misdone,
And well deservèd to have blame;
Change thou thy way, so evil begone,
And then my Lute shall sound that same!
But if till then my fingers play,
By thy desert their wonted way,
Blame not my Lute!

Farewell, unknown; for though thou break
My strings in spite with great disdain,
Yet have I found out, for thy sake,
Strings for to string my Lute again :
And if perchance this silly rhyme
Do make thee blush at any time,
Blame not my Lute!

SIR THOMAS WYATT.

SONNET.

bear!

I saw myself with many a smiling line Upon thy cheerful face, joy's livery wear, While those fair planets on thy streams

did shine;

Who judgeth well, well God them send;
Who judgeth evil, God them amend;
To judge the best therefore intend,
For I am as I am, and so will I end.

I'll do with thee as Nero did, When Rome was set on fire, Not only all relief forbid,

But to a hill retire,

And scorn to shed a tear to see Thy spirit grown so poor; But smiling sing, until I die,

I'll never love thee more.

Yet, for the love I bare thee once, Lest that thy name should die, A monument of marble-stone

The truth shall testifie: That every pilgrim passing by

May pity and deplore

My case, and read the reason why I can love thee no more.

The golden laws of love shall be

Upon this pillar hung,A simple heart, a single eye,

A true and constant tongue; Let no man for more love pretend Than he has hearts in store; True love begun shall never end;

Love one and love no more.

Then shall thy heart be set by mine,
But in far different case;
But mine was true, so was not thine,
But lookt like Janus' face.
For as the waves with every wind,
So sail'st thou every shore,
And leav'st my constant heart behind,-
How can I love thee more?

My heart shall with the sun be fix'd For constancy most strange,

As doth the turtle, chaste and true,
Her fellow's death regrete,
And daily mourns for his adieu,
And ne'er renews her mate;
So, though thy faith was never fast,

Which grieves me wondrous sore, Yet I shall live in love so chast, That I shall love no more.

And when all gallants ride about These monuments to view, Whereon is written, in and out,

Thou traitorous and untrue; Then in a passion they shall pause, And thus say, sighing sore, "Alas! he had too just a cause,

Never to love thee more."

And when that tracing goddess Fame
From east to west shall flee,
She shall record it to thy shame,

How thou hast loved me;
And how in odds our love was such
As few have been before:
Thou loved too many, and I too much,
So I can love no more.

JAMES GRAHAM, Marquis of Montrose.

OH, HAD WE SOME BRIGHT LITTLE ISLE OF OUR OWN!

Он, had we some bright little isle of our own,

In a blue summer ocean, far off and

alone,

Where a leaf never dies in the still blooming bowers,

Delighting aye in change.

Thy beauty shined at first more bright,
And woe is me therefore,

That ever I found thy love so light
I could love thee no more!

The misty mountains, smoking lakes,
The rocks' resounding echo,
The whistling wind that murmur makes
Shall with me sing hey ho!
The tossing seas, the tumbling boats,
Tears dropping from each shore,
Shall tune with me their turtle notes-
I'll never love thee more.

year of flowers;
Where the sun loves to pause

With so fond a delay,

That the night only draws A thin veil o'er the day. Where simply to feel that we breathe, that we live,

Is worth the best joy that life elsewhere can give.

There, with souls ever ardent and pure as the clime,

We should love as they loved in the first golden time;

DRINK to me only with thine eyes,
And I will pledge with mine;
Or leave a kiss but in the cup,

And I'll not look for wine.

The thirst that from the soul doth rise
Doth ask a drink divine;

But might I of Jove's nectar sup,
I would not change for thine.

I sent thee late a rosy wreath,
Not so much honoring thee
As giving it a hope that there

It could not wither'd be;
But thou thereon didst only breathe
And sent'st it back to me;

Since when it grows, and smells, I swear,
Not of itself, but thee!

(From the Greek.) BEN JONSON.

AT SETTING DAY AND RISING
MORN.

AT setting day and rising morn,

With soul that still shall love thee,
I'll ask of Heaven thy safe return,
With all that can improve thee.
I'll visit aft the birken bush,

Where first thou kindly told me Sweet tales of love, and hid thy blush, Whilst round thou didst enfold me. To all our haunts I will repair,

By greenwood shaw or fountain, Or where the summer day I'd share With thee upon yon mountain; There will I tell the trees and flowers, From thoughts unfeign'd and tender, By vows you're mine, by love is yours A heart that cannot wander.

ALLAN RAMSAY.

SONG OF MARGARET.

AY, I saw her, we have met;-
Married eyes, how sweet they be!
Are you happier, Margaret,

Than you might have been with me? Silence! make no more ado!

Did she think I should forget? Matters nothing, though I knew, Margaret, Margaret.

Once those eyes, full sweet, full shy,

Told a certain thing to mine; What they told me I put by,

Oh, so careless of the sign.
Such an easy thing to take,

And I did not want it then;
Fool! I wish my heart would break;
Scorn is hard on hearts of men.