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.

LADY MARY WROTH,

Daughter of Robert Earl of Leicester, (a younger brother of Sir P. Sidney), and wife of Sir Robert Wroth, is only remembered now as the distinguished female, to whom Ben Jonson dedicated the Alchemist; but, in her day, she enjoyed considerable reputation as authoress of the Urania, a romance interspersed with poetry, published in 1621.

SONG.

WHO can blame me, if I love?

Since Love before the world did move.

When I lov'd not, I despair'd,

Scarce for handsomeness I car'd;

Since so much I am refin'd,

As new fram'd of state and mind,

Who can blame me if I love,

Since Love before the world' did move?

Some in truth of Love beguil❜d,

Have him blind and childish stil'd;

But let none in these persist,

Since so judging judgment mist.

Who can blame me?

When nothing was, yet he seem'd clear: Nor when light could be descried,

To his crown a light was tied.

Who can blame me?

Love is truth, and doth delight,
Whereas Honour shines most bright:
Reason's self doth Love approve,

Which makes us ourselves to love.
Who can blame me?

Could I my past time begin,
I would not commit such sin,
To live an hour, and not to love;
Since Love makes us perfect prove.
Who can blame me?

SONG.

LOVE, a child, is ever crying;
Please him, and he straight is flying;

Give him, he the more is craving,

Never satisfied with having,

His desires have no measure;

Endless folly is his treasure;
What he promiseth he breaketh;
Trust not one word that he speaketh.

He vows nothing but false matter;
And to cozen you will flatter;

Let him gain the hand, he'll leave you,
And still glory to deceive you.

He will triumph in your wailing;
And yet cause be of your failing:
These his virtues are, and slighter
Are his gifts, his favours lighter.

Fathers are as firm in staying;
Wolves no fiercer in their preying:
As a child then, leave him crying;
Nor seek him so given to flying.