And I to thee will be as kinde
As Colin was to Rosalinde,
Of curtesie the flower.

Then will I be as true, quoth she,
As ever mayden yet might be
Unto her paramour.

With that she bent her snow-white knee,
Down by the shepheard kneeled shee,
And him she sweetly kist:

With that the shepheard whoop'd for joy,
Quoth he, Ther's never shepheards boy
That ever was so blist.1

THE FAREWELL TO LOVE.

From Beaumont and Fletcher's play, entitled "The Lover's Progress," Act iii. sc. 1.

ADIEU, fond love, farewell, you wanton powers;
I am free again.

Thou dull disease of bloud and idle hours,
Bewitching pain,

Fly to fools, that sigh away their time:
My nobler love to heaven doth climb,

And there behold beauty still young,

That time can ne'er corrupt, nor death destroy,
Immortal sweetness by fair angels sung,

And honoured by eternity and joy :

There lies my love, thither my hopes aspire,
Fond love declines, this heavenly love grows higher.

1 Blist-blest.

ULYSSES AND THE SYREN.

FROM "Hymen's Triumph," a pastoral tragi-comedy, by Samuel Daniel [b. 1562-d. 1619], a writer of great refinement and elegance. Mr. Coleridge said: "Read Daniel-the admirable Daniel-in his Civil Wars,' and 'Triumph of Hymen.' The style and language are just such as any pure and manly writer of the present day would It seems quite modern in comparison with the style of Shake

use.

speare."

SYREN.

COME, worthy Greeke, Ulysses come,
Possesse these shores with me,
The windes and seas are troublesome,
And here we may be free.
Here may we sit and view their toyle,
That travaile in the deepe,
Enjoy the day in mirth the while,
And spend the night in sleepe.

ULYSSES.

Faire nymph, if fame or honour were
To be attain'd with ease,

Then would I come and rest with thee,
And leave such toiles as these:
But here it dwels, and here must I
With danger seek it forth;

To spend the time luxuriously
Becomes not men of worth.

SYREN.

Ulysses, O be not deceiv'd

With that unreall name:
This honour is a thing conceiv'd,
And rests on others' fame.

Begotten only to molest

Our peace and to beguile

(The best thing of our life) our rest,
And give us up to toyle!

ULYSSES.

Delicious nymph, suppose there were
Nor honor, nor report,

Yet manlinesse would scorne to weare
The time in idle sport:

For toyle doth give a better touch
To make us feele our joy;
And ease findes tediousnes, as much
As labour yeelds annoy.

SYREN.

Then pleasure likewise seemes the shore,
Whereto tendes all your toyle;
Which you forego to make it more,
And perish oft the while.
Who may disport them diversly,
Find never tedious day;
And ease may have variety,
As well as action may.

ULYSSES.

But natures of the noblest frame
These toyles and dangers please;
And they take comfort in the same,
As much as you in ease:

And with the thought of actions past
Are recreated still:

When pleasure leaves a touch at last
To shew that it was ill.

SYREN.

That doth opinion only cause,

That's out of custom bred;
Which makes us many other laws
Than ever nature did.

No widdowe's waile for our delights,
Our sports are without blood;
The world we see by warlike wights
Receives more hurt than good.

ULYSSES.

But yet the state of things require
These motions of unrest,

And these great spirits of high desire
Seem borne to turne them best:
To purge the mischiefes, that increase
And all good order mar:
For oft we see a wicked peace
To be well chang'd for war.

SYREN.

Well, well, Ulysses, then I see
I shall not have thee here;
And therefore I will come to thee,
And take my fortune there.
I must be wonne that cannot win,
Yet lost were I not wonne :
For beauty hath created bin
T' undoo, or be undone.

CUPID'S PASTIME.

FROM the "Poetical Rhapsody," of which the first edition appeared in 1602, a second in 1608, a third in 1611, and a fourth in 1621. The Editor was Francis Davison, and the Miscellany contained poems by Sidney, Raleigh, Spenser, and other eminent writers in the reigns of Elizabeth and James the First. "Cupid's Pastime," which, in the third edition of the "Rhapsody," is called "A Fiction," is, in the first edition, signed "Anomos." Percy attributes it to Francis Davison, the eldest son of William Davison, Secretary of State to Queen Elizabeth. He was born about the year 1575, and is believed to have died before 1619.

Ir chanc'd of late a shepherd swain,

That went to seek his straying sheep,
Within a thicket on a plain

Espied a dainty Nymph asleep.

Her golden hair o'erspred her face;
Her careless arms abroad were cast;
Her quiver had her pillow's place;
Her breast lay bare to every blast.

The shepherd stood, and gaz'd his fill;
Nought durst he do; nought durst he say;
Whilst chance, or else perhaps his will,
Did guide the God of Love that way.

The crafty boy that sees her sleep,
Whom, if she wak'd, he durst not see;
Behind her closely seeks to creep,
Before her nap should ended bee.

There come, he steals her shafts away,
And puts his own into their place;
Nor dares he any longer stay,

But, ere she wakes, hies thence apace.

Scarce was he gone, but she awakes,
And spies the shepherd standing by :
Her bended bow in haste she takes,
And at the simple swain lets flye.

Forth flew the shaft, and pierc'd his heart,
That to the ground he fell with pain:
Yet up again forthwith did start,
And to the Nymph he ran amain.

Amazed to see so strange a sight,
She shot, and shot, but all in vain ;
The more his wounds, the more his might,
Love yielded strength amidst his pain.

Her angry eyes were great with tears,

She blames her hand, she blames her skill;
The bluntness of her shafts she fears,
And try them on herself she will.

Take heed, sweet Nymph, trye not thy shaft,
Each little touch will pierce thy heart:
Alas! thou know'st not Cupid's craft;
Revenge is joy; the end is smart.

Yet try she will, and pierce some bare;
Her hands were glov'd, but next to hand
Was that fair breast, that breast so rare,

That made the shepherd senseless stand.

That breast she pierc'd; and through that breast Love found an entry to her heart;

At feeling of this new-come guest,

Lord! how this gentle Nymph did start!

She runs not now; she shoots no more;
Away she throws both shaft and bow:
She seeks for what she shunn'd before;
She thinks the shepherd's haste too slow.

Though mountains meet not, lovers may :
What other lovers do, did they :

The God of Love sate on a tree,
And laught that pleasant sight to see.