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by Mr. Campbell in his Specimens of the Poets.]

From “ Hesperides," p. 122, Ed. 1648,* Herrick is highly lauded

• Where these well known lines are found, called :

CHERRIE-RIPE.
Cherrie-Ripe, Ripe, Ripe, I cry,
Full and fair ones; come and buy :
If so be, you ask me where
They doe grow! I answer, There,
Where my Julia's lips doe smile;
There's the Land, of Cherry-lle :
Whose plantations fully show
All the year, where Cherries grow.

TELL ME NO MORE.

HENRY KING-BISHOP OF CHICHESTER.

Born 1591-Died 1669.

The

I
By sad

Tell me no more how fair she is,
I have no mind to hear

story of that distant bliss

never shall come near :
That her perfection is my wound.

experience I have found
And tell me not how fond I am

tempt my daring fate,
whence no triumph ever came,
to repent too late :
is some hope ere long I may

To
From

But
There
In

silence doat myself away.

7. ESGLASD AND IRELAND.

I ask no pity, Love, from thee,

Nor will thy justice blame, So that thou wilt not envy me

The glory of my flame; Which crowns my heart whene'er it dies, In that it falls her sacrifice.

the Bora and a book
le long lan wear Shawford brook ;
len to him and eat my meat,
kan sa both rise and set:
Da li pod morning to dest das,
havelade ur time away:

kad tegle ca and beg to have
Aria pasuje to a welcome grave.

[The poems of King are terse and elegant, but, like those of most of his contemporaries, deficient in simplicity. Geo. ELLIS.]

wa wa sok vished to bear bis Kenda sing,

THE ANGLER'S WISH.

ISAAK WALTON.

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Verweg in Waltra's time, but it might now

thalaite old. Terse, without a single cry of

WEES ON YOUR MASK.

Born 1593-Died 1683.
I in these flow'ry meads would be:
These crystal streamns should solace me,
To whose harmonious bubbling noise,
I with my angle would rejoice,

Sit here and see the turtle dove

Court his chaste mate to acts of love. Or on that bank feel the west wind Breathe health and plenty, please my To see sweet dew-drops kiss these flowers, And then wash'd off by April showers :

mind

Here, hear my kenna sing a song

There see a blackbird feed her young.
Or a leverock build her nest;
Here, give my weary spirits rest,
And raise my low pitch'd thoughts above
Earth, or what poor mortals love :

Thus free from law-suits and the noise
Of Princes' Courts I would rejoice.

linear a guar mask and hide your eye, ise vil beboeling you I die,

na batal beauty, Gorgon like

Dead with astonishment will strike, Vive piercing eyes, if them I see Anore than Basiliskes to me.

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Tház melting valley do not show, These azure paths lead to despair, Orez me not forbear, forbear! Sur while I thus in torments dwell

Taight of heaven is worse than hell.

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[The song which honest Isaak wished to hear his Kenga sing, when loitering with his dog Bryan, he tells us was :

Like hermit poor in pensive place obscure,
I mean to spend my days of endless doubt,
To wait such woes as time cannot recure
Where none bat love shall ever find me out.

&c. &c.
It was no doubt a popular song in Walton's time, but it might now
be sung with many other favourite old verses, without a single cry of

&c.

"excellent good i' faith.")

KEEP ON YOUR MASK.

Keep on your mask and hide your eye,
For with beholding you 1 die,
Your fatal beauty, Gorgon like
Dead with astonishment will strike,
Your piercing eyes, if them I see
Are worse than Basiliskes to me.

Shut from mine eyes those hills of snow,
Their melting valley do not show,
Those azure paths lead to despair,
Ovex me not? forbear, forbear!
For while I thus in torments dwell
The sight of heaven is worse than hell.

Your dainty voice and warbling breath
Sounds like a sentence past for death ;
Your dangling tresses are become
Like instruments of final doom
0, if an angel torture so,
When life is done where shall I go!

(From a Ms. copy of Poems by William Browne, author of Bri. tannia's Pastorals contained among the Lansdown papers. This song is found at the end of the volume among some pieces by Raleigh, Wotton and others. It has the signature Wm. Ste. It is also fondd in a little volume called Westminster Drollery, published in 1672. without any name.]

DEATH'S FINAL CONQUEST.

JAMES SHIRLEY.

Born 1596—Died 1666.

The glories of our blood * and state

Are shadows, not substantial things;
There is no armour against fate:
Death lays his icy hands on kings:

Sceptre and crown

Must tumble down,
And in the dust be equal made

With the poor crooked scythe and spade.
Some men with swords may reap the field

And plant fresh laurels where they kill;
But their strong nerves at last must yield,
They tame but one another still.

Early or late

They stoop to fate,
And must give up their murmuring breath,
When they, pale captives, creep to death.

* Percy reads " birth."

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(This fine song is found in “ The Contention of Ajax and Ulystes, for the armour of Achilles," 1659. Shirley's Plays and Poems have been lately reprinted with notes by Mr. Gifford, and an account of his life by Mr. Dyce. Dr. Percy gave to the last lioe, what Ritson calls one of his " brilliant touches," by altering the word " their” to "the," certainly an improvement.]

THE SHEPHERD'S HOLIDAY.

JAMES SHIRLEY.

Woodmen, shepherds, come away,
This is Pan's great holiday,

Throw off cares,
With

your heaven-aspiring airs

Help us to sing,
While valleys with your echoes ring.
Nymphs that dwell within these groves,
Leave your arbours, bring your loves,

Gather posies, Crown

your golden hair with roses;

As you pass,
Foot like fairies on the grass.

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