PIERS.

Where chiefest are, there others be,
To us none else but only she;

When wilt thou speak in measure?

THENOT.

Astrea may be justly said,

A field in flowery robe array'd,

In season freshly springing.

PIERS.

That spring endures but shortest time, This never leaves Astrea's clime;

Thou liest instead of singing.

THENOT.

As heavenly light that guides the day, Right so doth shine each lovely ray,

That from Astrea flieth.

PIERS.

Nay, darkness oft that light inclouds,
Astrea's beams no darkness shrouds;

How loudly Thenot lieth!

THENOT.

Astrea rightly term I may,
A manly palm, a maiden bay,
Her verdure never dying.

PIERS.

Palm oft is crooked, bay is low;
She still upright, still high doth grow;
Good Thenot leave thy lying!

THENOT.

Then Piers, of friendship tell me why, My meaning true, my words should lie, And strive in vain to raise her?

PIERS.

Words from conceit do only rise,

Above conceit her honour flies;

But silence, nought can praise her.

CHORUS.

From the Tragedy of ANTONY,-done into English by the Countess of PEMBROKE, 1595.

THE boiling tempest still

Makes not sea-waters foam,
Nor still the northern blast
Disquiets quiet streams,
Nor who, his chest to fill,
Sails to the morning beams,
On waves wind tosseth fast,
Still keeps his ship from home.

Nor Jove still down doth cast,
Inflam'd with bloody ire,
On man, on tree, on hill,
His darts of thundering fire:
Nor still the heat doth last
On face of parched plain,
Nor wrinkled cold doth still
On frozen furrows reign.

But still as long as we
In this low world remain,
Mishaps, our daily mates,
Our lives do entertain;

And woes which bear no dates, Still perch upon our heads; None go, but straight will be Some greater in their steads.

Nature made us not free,
When first she made us live:
When we began to be,

To be began our woe;
Which growing evermore,
As dying life doth grow,
Do more and more us grieve,
And tire us more and more.

O blest who never breath'd,
Or whom, with pity mov'd,
Death from his cradle reav'd,
And swadled in his grave.

And blessed also he

(As curse may blessing have)

Who low, and living free,

No prince's charge hath prov'd.

By stealing sacred fire,
Prometheus, then unwise,
Provoking Gods to ire,

The heap of ills did stur;

And sickness, pale and cold,
Our end which onward spur
To plague our hands, too bold,
To filch the wealth of skies.

In heaven's hate since then,
Of ill with ill enchain'd,

We race of mortal men

Full fraught our breasts have borne;
And thousand, thousand woes
Our heavenly souls now thorn,
Which free before from those,

No earthly passion pain'd.

War and war's bitter cheer
Now long time with us stay,
And fear of hated foe

Still still encreaseth sore.

Our harms worse daily grow:

Less yesterday they were

Than now, and will be more
To-morrow than to-day.