All these in me no means can move
To come to thee, and be thy love.

But could youth last, and love still breed,
Had joys no date, nor age no need ;
Then these delights my mind might move,
To live with thee, and be thy love.

THE SILENT LOVER.

WRONG not, dear empress of my heart,
The merits of true passion,

With thinking that he feels no smart
That sues for no compassion ;

Since, if my plaints seem not to prove
The conquest of thy beauty,
It comes not from defect of love,
But from excess of duty.

For knowing that I sue to serve
A saint of such perfection
As all desire, but none deserve
A place in her affection;

I rather chuse to want relief,
Than venture the revealing :
Where glory recommends the grief,
Despair destroys the healing.

Thus, those desires that climb too high
For any mortal lover,

When reason cannot make them die,
Discretion doth them cover.

Yet, when discretion doth bereave
The plaints that I should utter,
Then thy discretion may perceive
That silence is a suitor.

Silence in love bewrays more woe
Than words, though ne'er so witty;
The beggar that is dumb, you know,
May challenge double pity.

Then wrong not, dear heart of my heart,
My true, though secret passion;
He smarteth most that hides his smart,
And sues for no compassion *.

* This piece is copied from a volume of Poems published in 1660, and ascribed to William Herbert, Earl of Pembroke-Lord Steward of the household to James I.-and Sir Benjamin Rudyer. In that collection, the above verses are given as the Earl of Pembroke's. In the copy of "The Silent Lover," printed as Raleigh's, in Ellis's Specimens of the Early English Poets, the fifth and sixth stanzas of the copy here given are wanting, while, to Mr. Ellis's Specimen, the following verses are prefixed :

Passions are likened best to floods and streams;
The shallow murmur, but the deep are dumb:
So, when affections yield discourse, it seems
The bottom is but shallow whence they come.
They that are rich in words must needs discover,
That they are poor in that which makes a lover.

SIR PHILIP SIDNEY,

Born 1554, died 1586.

FAINT amorist! what, dost thou think
To taste love's honey, and not drink
One dram of gall? or to devour

A world of sweet, and taste no sour?
Dost thou ever think to enter

Th' Elysian Fields, that dar'st not venture
In Charon's barge? A lover's mind
Must use to sail with every wind.

He that loves, and fears to try,
Learns his mistress to deny.

Doth she chide thee? 'tis to shew it
That thy coldness makes her do it.
Is she silent? is she mute?
Silence fully grants thy suit.
Doth she pout and leave the room?
Then she goes to bid thee come.

Is she sick? why then, be sure,
She invites thee to the cure.

Doth she cross thy suit with "No?"

Tush! she loves to hear thee woo.

Doth she call the faith of men

In question? nay, she loves thee then ; And if e'er she makes a blot,

She's lost if that thou hitt'st her not.

He that, after ten denials,

Dares attempt no farther trials,

Hath no warrant to acquire

The dainties of his chaste desire.

THOMAS LODGE,

Born about 1560, died 1625.

Now I find thy looks were feigned,
Quickly lost and quickly gained;
Soft thy skin, like wool of wethers,
Heart, unstable, light as feathers;
Tongue untrusty, subtle-sighted,
Wanton will, with change delighted.
Siren pleasant, foe to reason,
Cupid plague thee for this treason!

Of thine eyes I made my mirror;
From thy beauty came mine error:
All thy words I counted witty,
All thy smiles I deemed pity;

Thy false tears, that me aggrieved,
First of all my heart deceived.

Siren pleasant, foe to reason,

Cupid plague thee for this treason!

Feign'd acceptance, when I asked; Lovely words, with cunning masked; but heart unholy;

Holy vows,

Wretched man! my trust was folly!
Wit shall guide me in this durance,
Since in love is no assurance.

Siren pleasant, foe to reason,
Cupid plague thee for this treason!

Prime youth lasts not, age will follow, And make white those tresses yellow : Wrinkled face, for looks delightful, Shall acquaint thee, dame despightful! And whem time shall date thy glory, Then, too late, thou wilt be sorry. Siren pleasant, foe to reason,

Cupid plague thee for this treason!