For life, for love, for form, more good, more worth, more fair than she!

Yet such an one, as such was none, save only she was such :

Of Argentile, to say the most, were to be silent much.'

'I knew the lady very well, but worthless of such praise,'

The neatress said; and muse I do, a shepherd thus should blaze

The coat of beauty. Credit me, thy latter speech bewrays

Thy clownish shape, a coined show. But wherefore dost thou weep?'

(The shepherd wept, and she was woe, and both did silence keep).

'In troth,' quoth he, I am not such as seeming I profess;

But then for her, and now for thee, I from myself digress.

Her loved I, wretch that I am, a recreant to

be;

I loved her, that hated love; but now I die for thee.

At Kirkland is my father's court, and Curan is my name;

In Edell's court sometimes in pomp, till love controll'd the same:

But now; what now? dear heart! how now? what ailest thou to weep?'

(The damsel wept, and he was woe, and both did silence keep).

'I grant,' quoth she, it was too much, that you did love so much;

But whom your former could not move, your second love doth touch.

Thy twice beloved Argentile submitteth her to thee:

And for thy double love presents herself a single fee;

In passion, not in person chang'd, and I, my lord, am she.'

They sweetly surfeiting in joy, and silent for

a space,

Whereas the ecstasy had end, did tenderly embrace!

And for their wedding, and their wish, got fitting time and place.

William Warner.-About 1586.

485.-SONNET.

Muses, that sing Love's sensual empirie,
And lovers kindling your enraged fires
At Cupid's bonfires burning in the eye,
Blown with the empty breath of vain desires;
You, that prefer the painted cabinet
Before the wealthy jewels it doth store ye,
That all your joys in dying figures set,
And stain the living substance of your glory;
Abjure those joys, abhor their memory;
And iet my love the honour'd subject be

Of love and honour's complete history!
Your eyes were never yet let in too see
The majesty and riches of the mind,
That dwell in darkness; for your god is blind.
George Chapman.-About 1595.

486.-THERE IS A GARDEN IN HER FACE.

There is a garden in her face,

Where roses and white lilies grow; A heavenly paradise is that place,

Wherein all pleasant fruits do grow; There cherries grow that none may buy, Till cherry-ripe themselves do cry. Those cherries fairly do inclose

Of orient pearl a double row,
Which when her lovely laughter shows,
They look like rose-buds fill'd with snow.
Yet them no peer nor prince may buy,
Till cherry-ripe themselves do cry.

Her eyes like angels watch them still :
Her brows like bended bows do stand,
Threat'ning with piercing frowns to kill
All that approach with eye or hand
These sacred cherries to come nigh,
Till cherry-ripe themselves do cry.

Richard Alison.-About 1606.

487. ABSTRACT OF MELANCHOLY.

When I go musing all alone,
Thinking of divers things foreknown,
When I build castles in the air,
Void of sorrow, void of fear,
Pleasing myself with phantasms sweet,
Methinks the time runs very fleet.

All my joys to this are folly;
Nought so sweet as Melancholy.

When I go walking all alone, Recounting what I have ill-done, My thoughts on me then tyrannize; Fear and sorrow me surprise; Whether I tarry still, or go, Methinks the time moves very slow. All my griefs to this are jolly; Nought so sad as Melancholy.

When to myself I act and smile,
With pleasing thoughts the time beguile,
By a brook side, or wood so green,
Unheard, unsought for, or unseen;
A thousand pleasures do me bless,
And crown my soul with happiness.

All my joys besides are folly;
None so sweet as Melancholy.

When I lie, sit, or walk alone,

I sigh, I grieve, making great moan;
In a dark grove, or irksome den,
With discontents and furies then,
A thousand miseries at once
My heavy heart and soul ensconce.
All my griefs to this are jolly;
None so sour as Melancholy.

Methinks I hear, methinks I see,
Sweet music, wondrous melody;
Towns, palaces, and cities fine,

Here now, then there; the world is mine;
Rare beauties, gallant ladies shine;
Whate'er is lovely is divine.

All other joys to this are folly;
None so sweet as Melancholy.

Methinks I hear, methinks I see,
Ghosts, goblins, fiends: my phantasie
Presents a thousand ugly shapes-
Headless bears, black men, and apes;
Doleful outcries and fearful sights
My sad and dismal soul affrights.

All my griefs to this are jolly;
None so damned as Melancholy.

Robert Burton.-About 1621.

488.-SONG.

Rise, lady! mistress, rise!

The night hath tedious been, No sleep hath fallen into my eyes, Nor slumbers made me sin : Is not she a saint then, say, Thought of whom keeps sin away?

Rise, madam! rise, and give me light,
Whom darkness still will cover,
And ignorance, darker than night,
Till thou smile on thy lover:
All want day till thy beauty rise,
For the gray morn breaks from thine eyes.
Nathaniel Field.-About 1618.

Of which the world's three parts each boasts of one:

Though none of those, I love a sight as rare, Even her that o'er my life as queen doth sit; Juno in majesty, Pallas in wit,

As Phoebe chaste, than Venus far more fair; And though her looks even threaten death to me,

Their threat'nings are so sweet I cannot flee.

I chanced, my dear, to come upon a day Whilst thou wast but arising from thy bed, And the warm snows, with comely garments cled,

More rich than glorious, and more fine than gay.

Then, blushing to be seen in such a case,
O how thy curled locks mine eyes did please;
And well become those waves thy beauty's scas,
Which by thy hairs were framed upon thy face;
Such was Diana once, when being spied
By rash Actæon, she was much commoved :
Yet, more discreet than th' angry goddess
proved,

Thou knew'st I came through error, not of pride,

And thought the wounds I got by thy sweet sight

Were too great scourges for a fault so light.

Awake, my muse, and leave to dream of loves,
Shake off soft fancy's chains-I must be free;
I'll perch no more upon the myrtle tree,
Nor glide through th' air with beauty's sacred
doves;

But with Jove's stately bird I'll leave my nest,
And try my sight against Apollo's rays.
Then, if that ought my vent'rous course
dismays,

Upon th' olive's boughs I'll light and rest;
I'll tune my accents to a trumpet now,
And seek the laurel in another field.
Thus I that once (as Beauty's means did yield)
Did divers garments on my thoughts bestow,
Like Icarus, I fear, unwisely bold,
Am purposed other's passions now t' unfold.
William Alexander, Earl of Sterline.—
About 1630.

489.-SONNETS.

Some men delight huge buildings to behold, Some theatres, mountains, floods, and famous springs,

Some monuments of monarchs, and such things As in the books of fame have been enroll'd, Those stately towns that to the stars were raised;

Some would their ruins see (their beauty's gone),

490.-WOLSEY'S AMBITION.

Yet, as through Tagus' fair transparent streams,

The wand'ring merchant sees the wealthy gold,
Or like in Cynthia's half-obscured beams,
Through misty clouds and vapours manifold;
So through a mirror of my hoped-for gain,
I saw the treasure which I should obtain.

Thomas Storer.-About 1595.

Her beauty with Eternity began,
And only unto God was ever seen;
When Eden was possess'd with sinful man,
She came to him and gladly would have been
The long succeeding world's eternal Queen;
But they refused her, Oh, heinous deed!
And from that garden banish'd was their seed.

Since when, at sundry times in sundry ways,
Atheism and blended ignorance conspire,
How to obscure those holy burning rays,
And quench that zeal of heart-inflaming fire
That makes our souls to heavenly things
aspire ;

But all in vain, for, mangre all their might,
She never lost one sparkle of her light.

Thomas Storer.-About 1595.

492.-SIR FRANCIS DRAKE.

*

Look how the industrious bee in fragrant May,
When Flora gilds the earth with golden flowers,
Inveloped in her sweet perfumed array,
Doth leave his honey-limed delicious bowers,
More richly wrought than prince's stately
towers,

Waving his silken wings amid the air,

And to the verdant gardens makes repair.

First falls he on a branch of sugar'd thyme, Then from the marygold he sucks the sweet, And then the mint, and then the rose doth climb,

Then on the budding rosemary doth light,
Till with sweet treasure having charged his
feet,

Late in the evening home he turns again,
Thus profit is the guerdon of his pain.

So in the May-tide of his summer age
Valour enmoved the mind of vent'rous Drake
To lay his life with winds and waves in gage,
And bold and hard adventures t' undertake,
Leaving his country for his country's sake;
Loathing the life that cowardice doth stain,
Preferring death, if death might honour
gain.

Charles Fitzgeffrey.—About 1596.

493-TO POSTERITY.

Daughter of Time, sincere Posterity,
Always new-born, yet no man knows thy birth,
The arbitress of pure sincerity,

Yet changeable (like Proteus) on the earth, Sometime in plenty, sometime join'd with dearth:

Always to come, yet always present here,
Whom all run after, none come after near.

Unpartial judge of all, save present state,
Truth's idioma of the things are past,
But still pursuing present things with hate,
And more injurious at the first than last,
Preserving others, while thine own do waste:
True treasurer of all antiquity,

Whom all desire, yet never one could see.
Charles Fitzgefrey.-About 1600.

494.-FANCY AND DESIRE.

When wert thou born, Desire? In pride and pomp of May.

By whom, sweet boy, wert thou begot? By fond conceit men say.

Tell me who was thy nurse? Fresh Youth, in sugar'd joy.

What was thy meat and daily food? Sad sighs with great annoy.

What hadst thou then to drink? Unsavoury lovers' tears.

What cradle wert thou rock'd in? In hope devoid of fears.

What lull'd thee, then, asleep? Sweet sleep, which likes me best.

Tell me where is thy dwelling-place? In gentle hearts I rest.

What thing doth please thee most? To gaze on beauty still.

What dost thou think to be thy foe? Disdain of my good will.

Doth company displease? Yes, surely, many

one.

Where doth Desire delight to live? He loves to live alone.

But let that fashion more to modesty
Tend than assurance- -Modesty doth set
The face in her just place, from passion free;
'Tis both the mind's and body's beauty met.
All these good parts a perfect woman make;
Add love to me, they make a perfect wife;
Without her love, her beauty I should take
As that of pictures dead-that gives it life;
Till then her beauty, like the sun, doth shine
Alike to all;-that only makes it mine.

Sir Thomas Overbury.—About 1610.

496.-ROBERT, DUKE OF NORMANDY, PREVIOUSLY TO HIS EYES BEING PUT OUT.

As bird in cage debarr'd the use of wings,
Her captived life as nature's chiefest wrong,
In doleful ditty sadly sits and sings
And mourns her thralled liberty so long,
Till breath be spent in many a sitful song:
So here captived I many days did spend
In sorrow's plaint, till death my days did
end.

Where as prisoner though I did remain;
Yet did my brother grant this liberty,
To quell the common speech, which did
complain

On my distress, and on his tyranny,
That in his parks and forests joining by,

When I did please I to and fro might go,
Which in the end was cause of all my woe.

For on a time, when as Aurora bright
Began to scale heaven's steepy battlement.
And to the world disclose her cheerful light,
As was my wont, I with my keeper went
To put away my sorrow's discontent :

Thereby to ease me of my captive care,
And solace my sad thoughts in th' open air.
Wand'ring through forest wide, at length we
gain

A steep cloud-kissing rock, whose horned

crown

With proud imperial look beholds the main, Where Severn's dangerous waves run rolling

down,

From th' Holmes into the seas, by Cardiff town, Whose quick-devouring sands so dangerous been

To those that wander Amphitrite's green:

As there we stood, the country round we eyed To view the workmanship of nature's hand, There stood a mountain, from whose weeping

side

A brook breaks forth into the low-lying land, Here lies a plain, and there a wood doth stand, Here pastures, meads, corn-fields, a vale do

crown,

A castle here shoots up, and there a town.

Here one with angle o'er a silver stream
With baneful bait the nibbling fish doth feed;
There in a plough'd land with his painful team,
The ploughman sweats, in hope for labour's
meed:

Here sits a goatherd on a craggy rock, And there in shade a shepherd with his flock. The sweet delight of such a rare prospect Might yield content unto a careful eye; Yet down the rock descending in neglect Of such delight, the sun now mounting high, I sought the shade in vale, which low did lie, Where we reposed us on a green-wood side, A'front the which a silver stream did glide. There dwelt sweet Philomel, who never more May bide the abode of man's society, Lest that some sterner Tereus than before, Who cropt the flower of her virginity, 'Gainst her should plot some second villany; Whose doeful tunes to mind did cause me call

The woful story of her former fall.

The redbreast who in bush fast by did stand
As partner of her woes, his part did ply,
For that the gifts, with which Autumnus' hand
Had graced the earth, by winter's wrath should
die,

From whose cold cheeks bleak blasts began to fly,

Which made me think upon my summer past

Aud winter's woes, which all my life should last.

My keeper, with compassion moved to see How grief's impulsions in my breast did beat, Thus silence broke: 66 Would God (my Lord),"

quoth he,

"This pleasant land, which nature's hand hath set

Before your eyes, might cause you to forget Your discontent, the object of the eye Oftimes gives ease to woes which inward lie.

"Behold upon that mountain's top so steep, Which seems to pierce the clouds and kiss the sky,

How the grey shepherd drives his flock of sheep Down to the vale, and how on rocks fast by The goats frisk to and fro for jollity;

Give ear likewise unto these birds' sweet

songs,

And let them cause you to forget your wrongs."

To this I made reply: "Fond man," said I, "What under heaven can slack th' increasing

woe,

Which in my grieved heart doth hidden lie? Of choice delight what object canst thou show, But from the sight of it fresh grief doth grow?

What thou didst whilome point at to behold, The same the sum of sorrow doth enfold.

"That grey-coat shepherd, whom from far we

see,

I liken unto thee, and those his sheep
Unto my wretched self compared may be:
And though that careful pastor will not sleep,
When he from ravenous wolves his flock
should keep;

Yet here alas! in thrall thou keepest me, Until that wolf, my brother, hungry be. "Those shag-hair'd goats upon the craggy hill, Which thou didst show, see how they frisk and play,

And everywhere do run about at will:
Yea, when the lion marks them for his prey,
They over hills and rocks can fly away:

But when that lion fell shall follow me To shed my blood, O whither shall I flee? "Those sweet-voiced birds, whose airs thou dost commend,

To which the echoing woods return reply, Though thee they please, yet me they do

offend :

For when I see how they do mount on high
Waving their outstretch'd wings at liberty,
Then do I think how bird-like in a cage
My life I lead, and grief can never suage."
Richard Niccols.-About 1610.

497.-SLEEP.

Weep you no more, sad fountains,
What need you flow so fast?
Look how the snowy mountains
Heaven's sun doth gently waste,
But my sun's heavenly eyes

View not your weeping,
That now lies sleeping
Softly, now softly lies
Sleeping.

Sleep is a reconciling

A rest that peace begets;
Doth not the sun rise smiling,
When fair at even he sets ?
Rest you then, rest, sad eyes,
Melt not in weeping,
While she lies sleeping
Softly, now softly lies

Sleeping.

John Dowland.-About 1600.

498.-PSALM XXX.

I.

Lord, to Thee, while I am living,

Will I sing hymns of thanksgiving;

For thou hast drawn me from a gulf of woes,

So that my foes

Do not deride me.