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, To be began our woe; O blest who never breath'd, 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, The heap of ills did stur; And sickness, pale and cold, In heaven's hate since then, We race of mortal men Full fraught our breasts have borne; War and war's bitter cheer Still still encreaseth sore. Our harms worse daily grow: Less yesterday they were 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, Which makes us ourselves to love. Could I my past time begin, SONG. LOVE, a child, is ever crying; Give him, he the more is craving, Never satisfied with having, His desires have no measure; Endless folly is his treasure; He vows nothing but false matter; Let him gain the hand, he'll leave you, He will triumph in your wailing; Fathers are as firm in staying; |