drawn from the foregoing stanza, every line of which would form a head for a separate discourse. It is a consolatory thought, that however miserable in his own estimation may be the condition of any individual, there are nevertheless others to whom it would be comparative happiness. No sauce so sour as to be unpleasing to the palate of every

one.

CCXLII.

O fly not, love, O fly not me!
Stay but a while, O stay thee;
And hear a wretch complaining
His grief through thy disdaining.
O do not thus unkindly use me,

To kiss me once-and then refuse me.

Truly that was "the unkindest cut of all," and using the swain most ungenteely, as Miss Bailey's ghost said to wicked Captain Smith.

CCXLIII.

Who prostrate lie at women's feet,
And call them darlings dear and sweet;
Protesting love, and craving grace,

And praising oft a foolish face;

Are oftentimes deceived at last,

Then catch at nought, and hold it fast.

He who prostrate lies at woman's feet, thinks no tongue

can sufficiently praise his lady's fine feature.

As Ariosto says,

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'By all kind words, and gestures that he might,
"He calls her his dear heart, his sole beloved;
"His joyful comfort, and his sweet delight,
"His mistress, and his goddess, and such names
"As loving knights apply to lovely dames."

He makes himself quite her lackey, as Lucretia, a gay lady of the olden time, brags, " If I did but let my glove "fall by chance, I had one of my suitors, nay two or three "at once, ready to stoop and take it up, and kiss it, and "with a low congé deliver it to me. If I would walk, an"other was ready to sustain me by the arm, a third to pro"vide fruit, pears, plums, cherries, or whatsoever I would "eat or drink."

Yet as the Madrigal warns us, the silly shepherd, after all his labour and pain, his vows and protestations, is oftentimes deceived at last, and when he is fairly caught and obliged to hold fast by his bad bargain, he discovers too late, that

"A brittle gem, a bubble, is beauty pale,

"A rose, dew, snow, smoke, wind, air,-nought at all."

CCXLIV.

Sister, awake, close not your eyes,
The day its light discloses :

And the bright morning doth arise,

Out of her bed of roses.

See, the clear sun, the world's bright eye,

In at our window peeping.

Lo! how he blusheth to espy

Us idle wenches sleeping.

L

Therefore awake, make haste I say,
And let us, without staying,

All in our gowns of green so gay
Into the park a maying.

Such a beautiful picture of a summer morning is given in these lines, that often after reading them I have vowed to spare Phoebus' blushes, by rising with him, but, ah! the frailty of human nature! The next day has found him not peeping in at the window with gray uncertain light, but shining on my half-closed eyelids with the full blaze of his rubicund countenance.

Bateson's "Second set of Madrigals to three, four, five, "and six parts, apt for viols and voices," was composed in Dublin, but printed in London, by Thomas Snodham, A.D. 1618, and dedicated to "the Right Honourable Arthur, "Lord Chichester, Baron of Belfast, Lord High Treasurer "of Ireland." Bateson is styled in the title page "Bache"lor of Music, Organist and Master of the Children of the "Cathedral Church of the Blessed Trinity, Dublin, in the "Realm of Ireland." It contains thirty Madrigals.

CCXLV.

My mistress, after service due,
Demanded if my love were true:
I said it was; then she replied,
That I must hate whom she defied.

And so myself above the rest,

Whom she did most of all detest.

In sooth, said I, you see I hate myself,

To set my love on such a peevish elf.

Well said, Mr. Poet,-in sooth I think you have given the unconscionable lady " A Roland for her Oliver."

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CCXLVI.

One woman scarce of twenty,
But hath of tears great plenty;
Which they pour out like fountains,

That run down from the mountains:
Yet all is but beguiling,

Their tears and eke their smiling.
I'll therefore never trust them,
Since Nature hath so curst them;

That they can weep in smiling,
Poor fools thereby beguiling.

Ovid's advice (and he was well skilled in such matters) is

"Care not for woman's tears, I counsel thee,

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They teach their eyes as much to weep as see."

Which in plain prose may be rendered, in the words of Burton, "As much pity is to be taken of a woman weep"ing as of a goose going barefoot. They will crack, coun"terfeit and collogue," adds he, "with handkerchiefs, and wrought nightcaps, purses, posies, and such toys; and "when nothing else will serve, their last refuge is in tears, "which they have at command; or they can weep with one eye, and laugh with the other; and how shall a young "novice thus beset escape? Believe them not."

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In a play by Decker, with a very unmentionable name, is the following stanza, appropriate to the present subject:

"Trust not a woman when she cries;

"For she 'll pump water from her eyes
"With a wet finger, and in faster showers
"Than April when he rains down on the flowers."

CCXLVII.

The Nightingale, in silent night,
Doth sing as well as in the light:
To lull love's watchful eyes asleep,
She doth her nightly vigils keep.
Then, hey ho! sing we withal,
What fortune us so e'er befall.

CCXLVIII.

Pleasure is a wanton thing,

When old and young do dance and spring;
Pleasure is what most desire,

And yet 't is but a fool's hire.

Mankind, according to Burton, are at no period of their lives insensible to the pleasures of dancing. "Who can "withstand it?" saith he; "be we young or old, though our "teeth shake in our heads like virginal jacks, or stand pa"rallel asunder like the arches of a bridge,—there is no "remedy: we must dance Trenchmore* over tables, chairs, "and stools."

* Vide No. CLV.