But still moves delight,

Like clear springs renewed by flowing,
Ever perfect, ever in them-

selves eternal.

WILLIAM BROWNE.

(1590?-1645?.)

Browne's Poems are published in the Roxburghe Library, edited by Mr. W. C. Hazlitt, and in the Muses' Library, edited by Mr. Gordon Goodwin, 1894.

CARPE DIEM.

From Britannia's Pastorals, Book i., 1613.

ENTLE nymphs, be not refusing,

GEN

Love's neglect is time's abusing,
They and beauty are but lent you,

Take the one and keep the other:

Love keeps fresh what age doth smother:
Beauty gone you will repent you.

'T will be said when ye have proved,
Never swains more truly loved:

O then fly all nice behaviour.
Pity fain would, as her duty,
Be attending still on beauty,
Let her not be out of favour.

THE SONG IN THE WOOD.

From the Inner Temple Masque, 1614-15.

WHAT sing the sweet birds in each grove?

Nought but love.

What sound our echoes day and night?

(M 349)

All delight.

What doth each wind breathe as it fleets?

Endless sweets.

Chorus.

Is there a place on earth this Isle excels,
Or any nymphs more happy live than we?
When all our songs, our sounds, and breathings be,
That here all love, delight, and sweetness dwells.

THE SIREN'S SONG.

From the Inner Temple Masque.

TEER hither, steer your wingèd pines,

STEER

All beaten mariners,

Here lie Love's undiscovered mines,

A prey to passengers;

Perfumes far sweeter than the best

Which make the Phoenix' urn and nest.
Fear not your ships,

Nor any to oppose you save our lips,
But come on shore,

Where no joy dies till love hath gotten more.

For swelling waves our panting breasts,
Where never storms arise,

Exchange; and be awhile our guests:
For stars gaze on our eyes.

The compass love shall hourly sing,
And as he goes about the ring,

We will not miss

To tell each point he nameth with a kiss.

Chorus.

Then come on shore,

Where no joy dies till love hath gotten more.

LOVE'S REASONS.

From Lansdowne MS. 777, first printed 1815.

FOR her gait if she be walking,

Be she sitting I desire her

For her state's sake, and admire her
For her wit if she be talking.

Gait and state and wit approve her;
For which all and each I love her.

Be she sullen, I commend her
For a modest. Be she merry,

For a kind one her prefer I.
Briefly everything doth lend her

So much grace and so approve her,
That for everything I love her.

EPITAPH ON THE COUNTESS OF PEMBROKE

From Lansdowne MS. 777, first published in Osborne's Memoirs of the Reign of King James, 1658; often, but erroneously, ascribed to Ben Jonson.

UNDERNEATH this sable hearse,

Lies the subject of all verse,
SIDNEY'S sister, PEMBROKE'S mother;
Death! ere thou hast slain another,
Fair and learn'd, and good as she,
Time shall throw a dart at thee

EPITAPH.

From Lansdowne MS. 777

MAY! be thou never graced with birds that sing,

Nor Flora's pride!

In thee all flowers and roses spring;

Mine only died.

WELCOME.

From Lansdowne MS. 777.

WELCOME, welcome do I sing,

Far more welcome than the spring:
He that parteth from you never
Shall enjoy a spring for ever.

Love, that to the voice is near
Breaking from your ivory pale,
Need not walk abroad to hear
The delightful nightingale.

Welcome, welcome then I sing,
Far more welcome than the spring:
He that parteth from you never
Shall enjoy a spring for ever.

Love, that looks still on your eyes
Though the winter have begun
To benumb our arteries,

Shall not want the summer's sun.
Welcome, welcome, &c.

Love, that still may see your cheeks,
Where all rareness still reposes,

Is a fool if e'er he seeks

Other lilies, other roses.

Welcome, welcome, &c.

Love, to whom your soft lip yields,
And perceives your breath in kissing,

All the odours of the fields

Never, never shall be missing.

Welcome, welcome, &c.

Love, that question would anew
What fair Eden was of old,

Let him rightly study you,
And a brief of that behold.

Welcome, welcome, &c.

VISION OF THE ROSE.

From Lansdowne MS. 777.

A ROSE, as fair as ever saw the North,

Grew in a little garden all alone;

A sweeter flower did Nature ne'er put forth,
Nor fairer garden yet was never known;
The maidens danced about it morn and noon,
And learned bards of it their ditties made;
The nimble fairies by the pale-faced moon
Watered the root and kissed her pretty shade.
But well-a-day, the gardener careless grew;
The maids and fairies both were kept away,
And in a drought the caterpillars threw
Themselves upon the bud and every spray.

God shield the stock! if heaven send no supplies
The fairest blossom of the garden dies.

WILLIAM DRUMMOND

OF HAWTHORNDEN.

(1585-1649.)

Drummond's Poems are reprinted in Chalmers' Poets; and are also edited by Mr. W. B. Turnbull in the Library of Old Authors, 1856, and by Mr. W. C. Ward in the Muses' Library, 1895. The first sonnet and the three madrigals are from Drummond's Poems, Amorous, Funeral, &c., Part i. 1616; the other sonnets are from the Flowers of Sion, 1623.

SONNET: TO THE NIGHTINGALE.

EAR chorister, who from those shadows sends,

DEA

Ere that the blushing morn dare show her light,
Such sad lamenting strains, that night attends,
Become all ear, stars stay to hear thy plight:
If one whose grief even reach of thought transcends,
Who ne'er, not in a dream, did taste delight,