Or with my Bryan and a book

Loiter long days near Shawford brook;
There sit by him and eat my meat,
There see the sun both rise and set:
There bid good morning to next day,
There meditate my time away:

And angle on and beg to have

A quiet passage to a welcome grave.

[The song which honest Isaak wished to hear his Kenna 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 but love shall ever find me out.

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 "excellent good i' faith."]

KEEP ON YOUR MASK.

Keep on your mask and hide your eye,
For with beholding you I 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,
O vex 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
O, 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 found 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."

The garlands wither on your brow,
Then boast no more your mighty deeds;
Upon death's purple altar now
See, where the victor-victim bleeds:

All heads

must come

To the cold tomb,

Only the actions of the just
Smell sweet, and blossom in their dust.

This fine song is found in

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 line, what Ritson calls one of his "brilliant touches," by altering the word "their" to "the," certainly an improvement.]

"The Contention of Ajax and Ulysses,

THE SHEPHERD'S HOLIDAY.

JAMES SHIRLEY.

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

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

As

your golden hair with roses;

you pass,

Foot like fairies on the grass.

Joy crown our bowers! Philomel
Leave off Tereus' rape to tell.
Let trees dance,

As they at Thracian lyre did once:
Mountains play,

This is the shepherd's holiday.

[From "Love Tricks or the School of Complement," 1631.]

WHY DO YOU DWELL.

JAMES SHIRLEY.

Why do you dwell so long in clouds,
And smother your best graces ?
'Tis time to cast away those shrouds,
And clear your manly faces.

Or not behave yourselves like spies
Upon the ladies here;

On even terms go meet their eyes,
Beauty and love shine there.

You tread dull measures thus alone,

Not satisfy delight;

Go kiss their hands, and make your own

With every touch more white.

[Found in Shirley's masque of "The Triumph of Peace," and sung while the masquers are in "their revels with the ladies."]

LOVE FLIES AWAY.

THOMAS MAY.

Born about 1596-Died 1652.

Dear, do not you fair beauty wrong,
In thinking still you are too young;
The rose and lilies in your cheek
Flourish, and no more ripeness seek.

Your cherry lip, red, soft and sweet,
Proclaims such fruit for taste most meet;

Then lose

And flies

no

time, for love has wings,

[From "The Old Couple," 1658. 4to.]

DISDAIN RETURNED.

THOMAS CAREW.

Born about 1600-Died about 1639.

He that loves a rosy cheek,
Or a coral lip admires,
Or from star-like eyes doth seek
Fuel to maintain his fires;
As old Time makes these decay,
So his flames must waste away.