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of literary men, to whom these antique Oriental com- that short period, we shall find the names of almost positions presented numberless incidents, images, all the very great men that this nation has ever proand sentiments, unknown before, and of the richest duced, the names of Shakspeare, and Bacon, and and most interesting kind.

Spenser, and Sydney, and Hooker, and Taylor, and Among other circumstances favourable to litera- Barrow, and Raleigh, and Napier, and Hobbes, and ture at this period, must be reckoned the encourage- many others; men, all of them, not merely of great ment given to it by Queen Elizabeth, who was herself talents and accomplishments, but of vast compas very learned and addicted to poetical composition, and reach of understanding, and of minds truly and had the art of filling her court with men qualified creative and original; not perfecting art by the to shine in almost every department of intellectual delicacy of their taste, or digesting knowledge by the exertion. Her successors, James and Charles; re- justness of their reasonings, but making vast and sembled her in some of these respects, and during substantial additions to the materials upon wbich their reigns, the impulse which she had given to taste and reason must hereafter be employed, and literature experienced rather an increase than a enlarging to an incredible and unparalleled extent decline. There was, indeed, something in the policy, both the stores and the resources of the huma as well as in the personal character of all these sove- faculties.' reigns, which proved favourable to literature. The

THOMAS SACKVILLE. study of the belles lettres was in some measure identified with the courtly and arbitrary principles In the reign of Elizabeth, some poetical names of of the time, not perhaps so much from any enlight-importance precede that of Spenser. The first is ened spirit in those who supported such principles, THOMAS SACKVILLE (1536–1608), ultimately Earı as from a desire of opposing the puritans, and other malcontents, whose religious doctrines taught them to despise some departments of elegant literature, and utterly to condemn others. There can be no doubt that the drama, for instance, chiefly owed that encouragement which it received under Elizabeth and her successors, to a spirit of hostility to the puritans, who, not unjustly, repudiated it for its immorality. We must at the same time allow much to the influence which such a court as that of England, during these three reigns, was calculated to have among men of literary tendencies. Almost all the poets, and many of the other writers, were either courtiers themselves, or under the immediate protection of courtiers, and were constantly experiencing the smiles, and occasionally the solid benefactions, of royalty. Whatever, then, was refined, or gay, or sentimental, in this country and at this time, came with its full influence upon literature.

The works brought forth under these circumstances have been very aptly compared to the productions of a soil for the first time broken up, when 'all indigenous plants spring up at once with a rank and irrepressible fertility, and display whatever is peculiar and excellent in their nature, on a scale the

Thomas Sackville. most conspicuous and magnificent.** The ability to of Dorset and Lord High Treasurer of England, and write having been, as it were, suddenly created, the who will again come before us in the character of a whole world of character, imagery, and sentiment, dramatic writer. In 1557. Sackville formed the de as well as of information and pbilosophy, lay ready I sign of a poem, entitled The Mirrour for Magistrates. for the use of those who possessed the gift, and of which he wrote only the Induction,' and one legend was appropriated accordingly. As might be ex

on the life of Henry Stafford, Duke of Buckingham. pected, where there was less rule of art than opu- | In imitation of Dante and some other of his prede. lence of materials, the productions of these writers

cessors, he lays the scene of his poem in the infernal are often deficient in taste, and contain much that regions, to which he descends under the guidance is totally aside from the purpose. To pursue the

of an allegorical personage named SORROW. It was simile above quoted, the crops are not so clean as if his object to make all the great persons of English they had been reared under systematic cultivation. history, from the Conquest downwards, pass here in On this account, the refined taste of the eighteenth review, and each tell his own story, as a warning to century condemned most of the productions of the existing statesmen ; but other duties compelled the sixteenth and seventeenth to oblivion, and it is only poet, after he had written what has been stated, to of late that they have once more obtained their de

| break off, and commit the completion of the work to served reputation. After every proper deduction

two poets of inferior note, Richard Baldwyne and has been made, enough remains to fix this era as | George Ferrers. The whole poem is one of a very 'by far the mightiest in the history of English lite

remarkable kind for the age, and the part executed rature, or indeed of human intellect and capacity. | by Sackville exhibits in some parts a strength of There never was anything,' says the writer above description and a power of drawing allegorical cha. quoted, like the sixty or seventy years that elapsed racters, scarcely inferior to Spenser from the middle of Elizabeth's reign, to the period of the Restoration. In point of real force and origi- [Allegorical characters from the Mirrour for Magistrate.) nality of genius, neither the age of Pericles, nor the

And first, within the porch and jaws of hell, age of Augustus, nor the times of Leo X., nor of Louis XIV., can come at all into comparison; for in

Sat deep Remorse of Conscience, all besprent | With tears; and to herself oft would she tell

Her wretchedness, and, cursing, never stent * Edinburgh Review, xviii. 275.

To sob and sigh, but ever thus lament


With thoughtful care ; as she that, all in vain, Would wear and waste continually in pain : Her eyes unstedfast, rolling here and there, Whirl'd on each place, as place that vengeance So was her mind continually in fear, [brought, Tost and tormented with the tedious thought Of those detested crimes which she had wrought; With dreadful cheer, and looks thrown to the sky, Wishing for death, and yet she could not die. Nest, saw we Dread, all trembling how he shook, With foot uncertain, profer'd here and there; Benumb'd with speech ; and, with a ghastly look, Searched every place, all pale and dead for fear, | His cap born up with staring of his hair ;

'Stoin'd and amazed at his own shade for dread, li And fearing greater dangers than was need.

And, next, within the entry of this lake,
Sat fell Revenge, gnashing her teeth for ire;
Devising means how she may vengeance take;
Never in rest, 'till she have her desire;
But frets within so far forth with the fire
Of wreaking flames, that now determines she
To die by death, or 'veng'd by death to be.
When fell Revenge, with bloody foul pretence,
Had show'd herself, as next in order set,
With trembling limbs we softly parted thence,
'Till in our eyes another sight we met;
When fro my heart a sigh forthwith I fet,
Ruing, alas, upon the woeful plight
Of Misery, that next appear'd in sight :
His face was lean, and some-deal pin'd away,
And eke his hands consumed to the bone;
But, what his body was, I cannot say,
For on his carcase raiment had he none,
Save clouts and patches pieced one by one;
With staff in hand, and scrip on shoulders cast,
His chief defence against the winter's blast:
His food, for most, was wild fruits of the tree,
Unless sometime some crumbs fell to his share,
Which in his wallet long, God wot, kept he,
As on the which full daint’ly would he fare ;
His drink, the running stream, his cup, the bare
Of his palm closed; his bed, the hard cold ground:
To this poor life was Misery ybound.
Whose wretched state when we had well beheld,
With tender ruth on him, and on his feers,
In thoughtful cares forth then our pace we held ;
And, by and by, another shape appears
Of greedy Care, still brushing up the briers;
His knuckles knob'd, his flesh deep dinted in,
With tawed hands, and hard ytanned skin:
The morrow grey no sooner hath begun
To spread his light e'en peeping in our eyes,
But he is up, and to his work yrun;
But let the night's black misty mantles rise,
And with foul dark nerer so inuch disguise
The fair bright day, yet ceaseth he no while,
But hath his candles to prolong his toil.
By him lay heavy Sleep, the cousin of Death,
Flat on the ground, and still as any stone,
A very corpse, save yielding forth a breath ;
Small keep took he, whom fortune frowned on,
Or whom she lifted up into the throne
Of high renown, but, as a living death,
So dead alive, of life he drew the breath:
The body's rest, the quiet of the heart,
The travel's case, the still night's fecr was he,
And of our life in earth the better part;
Riever of sight, and vet in whom we see
Things oft that [tyde) and oft that never be;
Without respect, esteem[ing] equally
King Croesus' pomp and Irus' poverty.

And next in order sad, Old-Age we found :
His beard all hoar, his eyes hollow and blind;
With drooping cheer still poring on the ground,
As on the place where nature him assign'd
To rest, when that the sisters had untwin'd
His vital thread, and ended with their knife
The flceting course of fast declining life :
There heard we him with broke and hollow plaint
Rue with himself his end approaching fast,
And all for nought his wretched mind torment
With sweet remembrance of his pleasures past.
And fresh delights of lusty youth forewaste;
Recounting which, how would he sob and shriek,
And to be young again of Jove beseek!
But, an the cruel fates so fixed be
That time forepast cannot return again,
This one request of Jove yet prayed he,-
That, in such wither'd plight, and wretched pain,
As eld, accompany'd with her loathsome train,
Had brought on him, all were it woe and grief
He might a while yet linger forth his life,
And not so soon descend into the pit;
Where Death, when he the mortal corpse hath slain,
With reckless hand in grave doth cover it:
Thereafter never to enjoy again
The gladsome light, but, in the ground ylain,
In depth of darkness waste and wear to nought,
As he had ne'er into the world been brought :
But who had seen him sobbing how he stood
Unto himself, and how he would bemoan
His youth forepast--as though it wrought him good
To talk of youth, all were his youth foregone-
He would have mused, and marvel'd much whereon
This wretched Age should life desire so fain,
And knows full well life doth but length his pain :
Crook-back'd he was, tooth-shaken, and blear-eyed ;
Went on three feet, and sometime crept on four;
With old lame bones, that rattled by his side;
His scalp all pild, and he with eld forelore,
His wither'd fist still knocking at death's door;
Fumbling, and driveling, as he draws his breath;
For brief, the shape and messenger of Death.
And fast by him pale Malady was placed :
Sore sick in bed, her colour all foregone;
Bereft of stomach, savour, and of taste,
Ne could she brook no meat but broths alone;
Her breath corrupt; her keepers every one
Abhorring her; her sickness past recure,
Detesting physic, and all physic's cure.
But, oh, the doleful sight that then we see !
We turn'd our look, and on the other side
A grisly shape of Famine mought we see :
With greedy looks, and gaping mouth, that cried
And roar'd for meat, as she should there have died ;
Her body thin and bare as any bone,
Whereto was left nought but the case alone.
And that, alas, was gnawen every where,
All full of holes; that I ne mought refrain
From tears, to see how she her arms could tear,
And with her teeth gnash on the bones in vain,
When, all for nought, she fain would so sustain
Her starven corpse, that rather seem'd a shade
Than any substance of a creature made :
Great was her force, whom stone-wall could not stay :
Her tearing nails snatching at all she saw;
With gaping jaws, that by no means ymay
Be satisfy'd from hunger of her maw,
| But eats herself as she that hath no law;

Gnawing, alas, her carcase all in vain,
| Where you may count each sinew, bone, and vein.


On her while we thus firmly fix'd our eyes,

latter, on her accession to the throne, rewarded him That bled for ruth of such a dreary sight,

with many favours. He must have been a man Lo, suddenly she shriek'd in so huge wise

taste and refined feelings, as the following specindet As made hell gates to shiver with the might;

of his poetry will suffice to show:Wherewith, a dart we saw, how it did light Right on her breast, and, therewithal, pale Death

Sonnet made on Isabella Markham, when I first Enthirling it, to rieve her of her breath:

thought her fair, as she stood at the princess's vinder, And, by and by, a dumb dead corpse we saw,

in goodly attire, and talked to divers in the courtyard, Heavy, and cold, the shape of Death aright,

1564. That daunts all earthly creatures to his law,

Whence comes my love ? Oh heart, disclose; Against whose force in vain it is to fight;

It was from cheeks that shamed the rose, Ne peers, ne princes, nor no mortal wight,

From lips that spoil the ruby's praise, No towns, ne realms, cities, ne strongest tower,

From eyes that mock the diamond's blaze : But all, perforce, must yield unto his power:

Whence comes my woe! as freely own; His dart, anon, out of the corpse he took,

Ah me! 'twas from a heart like stone. And in his hand (a dreadful sight to see)

The blushing cheek speaks modest mind, With great triumph eftsoons the same hé shook,

The lips befitting words most kind, That most of all my fears affrayed me;

The eye does tempt to love's desire, His body dight with nought but bones, pardy;

And seems to say 'tis Cupid's fire; The naked shape of man there saw I plain,

Yet all so fair but speak my moan, All save the flesh, the sinew, and the vein,

Sith nought doth say the hcart of stone. Lastly, stood War, in glittering arms yclad,

Why thus, my love, so kind bespeak With visage grim, stern look, and blackly hued :

Sweet eye, sweet lip, sweet blushing cheekIn his right hand a naked sword he had,

Yet not a heart to save my pain ; That to the hilts was all with blood imbrued ;

Oh Venus, take thy gifts again! And in his left (that kings and kingdoms rued)

Make not so fair to cause our moan,
Famine and fire he held, and therewithal

Or make a heart that's like our own.
He razed towns, and threw down towers and all :
Cities he sack’d, and realms (that whilom flower'd

In honour, glory, and rule, above the rest)
He overwhelm’d, and all their fame devour'd,

Sir Pullip SIDNEY (1554-1586) takes his rank in Consum'd, destroy'd, wasted, and never ceas'd, English literary history rather as a prose writer than 'Till he their wealth, their name, and all oppress'd : as a poet. His poetry, indeed, has long been laid His face forehew'd with wounds; and by his side aside on account of the cold and affected style in There hung his targe, with gashes deep and wide. which he wrote. It has been justly remarked, that,

|“if he had looked into his own noble heart, and

written directly from that, instead of from his some[Henry Duke of Buckingham in the Infernal Regions.] what too metaphysico-philosophical head, his poetry

would have been excellent. Yet in some pieces he The description of the Duke of Buckingham-the Bucking. I has fortunately failed in extinguishing the natural ham, it must be recollected, of Richard III.-has been much

sentiment which inspired him. The following are admired, as an impersonation of extreme wretchedness.)

| admired specimens of his sonnets :-
Then first came Henry Duke of Buckingham,
His cloak of black all piled, and quite forlorn,
Wringing his hands, and Fortune oft doth blame,

[Sonnets of Sir Philip Sidney.] Which of a duke had made him now her scorn ; Because I oft in dark abstracted guise With ghastly looks, as one in manner lorn,

Seem most alone in greatest company,
Oft spread his arms, stretched hands he joins as fast, With dearth of words, or answers quite a wry
With rueful cheer, and vapoured eyes upcast.

To them that would make speech of speech arise, His cloak he rent, his manly breast he beat;

They deem, and of their doom the rumour flies, His hair all torn, about the place it lain :

That poison foul of bubbling Pride doth lie My heart so molt to see his grief so great,

So in my swelling breast, that only I As feelingly, methought, it dropped away :

Fawn on myself, and others do despise. His eyes they whirled about withouten stay :

Yet Pride, I think, doth not my soul possess, With stormy sighs the place did so complain,

Which looks too oft in his unflattering glass ; As if his heart at each had burst in twain.

But one worse fault Ambition I confess,

That makes me oft my best friends overpass, Thrice he began to tell his doleful tale,

Unseen, unheard, while thought to highest place And thrice the sighs did swallow up his voice ; Bends all his powers, even unto Stella's grace. At each of which he shrieked so withal, As though the heavens ryved with the noise ;

With how sad steps, O Moon! thou climb'st the skies, Till at the last, recovering of his voice,

How silently, and with how wan a face ! Supping the tears that all his breast berained,

What may it be, that even in heavenly place
On cruel Fortune weeping thus he plained.

That busy Archer his sharp arrows tries !
Sure, if that long with love acquainted eyes

Can judge of love, thou feel'st a lover's case;

I read it in thy looks, thy languish'd grace

To me that feel the like thy state descries. Some pleasing amatory verses (exhibiting a re- Then, even of fellowship, O Moon, tell me, markable polish for the time in which they were Is constant love deem’d there but want of wit! written) by John HARRINGTON (1534-1582) have | Are beauties there as proud as here they be! been published in the Nugæ Antiqua. This poet Do they above love to be lov’d, and yet was imprisoned in the Tower by Queen Mary, for | Those lovers scorn whom that love doth possess ? holding correspondence with Elizabeth and the I Do they call virtue there ungratefulness o


i Come, Sleep, 0 Sleep, the certain knot of peace,

SIR WALTER RALEIGH-TIMOTHY KENDAL--NICHOLAS The baiting place of wit, the balm of woe, The poor man's wealth, the prisoner's release,

BRETON-HENRY CONSTABLE. The indifferent judge between the high and low.

SIR WALTER RALEIGH, to whose merits as a prose With shield of proof shield me from out the preasel writer justice is done in the sequel, deserves to be Of those fierce darts, Despair at me doth throw; ranked amongst the minor poets of Elizabeth's reign. O make in me those civil wars to cease :

TIMOTHY KENDAL is only known for having pubI will good tribute pay, if thou do so.

lished, in 1577, a volume entitled Hours of Epigrams, Take thou of me smooth pillows, sweetest bed; NICHOLAS BRETON (1555-1624) wrote some pastoral A chamber, deaf to noise, and blind to light;

poems, and a volume called the Works of a Young A rosy garland, and a weary head.

Wit. HENRY CONSTABLE was a popular writer of And if these things, as being thine by right,

sonnets, though strangely conceited and unnatural Move not thy heavy grace, thou shalt in me

in his style. In most of the works of these inferior Livelier than elsewhere Stella's image see.

poets, happy thoughts and imagery may be found, Having this day my horse, my hand, my lance

mixed up with affectations, forced analogies, and Guided so well, that I obtain'd the prize,

conceits. It is worthy of remark, that this was the Both by the judgment of the English eyes,

age when collections of fugitive and miscellaneous And of some sent from that sweet enemy France ;

poems first became common. Several volumes of Horsemen my skill in horsemanship advance ;

this kind, published in the reign of Elizabeth, conTownfolks my strength; a daintier judge applies

tain poetry of high merit, without any author's His praise to sleight which from good use doth rise ; Some lucky wits impute it but to chance; Others, because of both sides I do take

The Country's Recreations, My blood from them who did excel in this,

(From a poem by Raleigh, bearing the above title, the following Think nature me a man of arms did make.

verses are extracted.] How far they shot awry! the true cause is,

| Heart-tearing cares and quiv’ring fears, Stella look'd on, and from her heavenly face

Anxious sighs, untimely tears, Sent forth the beams which made so fair my race.

Fly, fly to courts, In martial sports I had my cunning tried,

Fly to fond worldling's sports ; And yet to break more staves did me address;

Where strained sardonic smiles are glozing still, While with the people's shouts, I must confess,

And Grief is forced to laugh against her will ; Youth, luck, and praise, even fillid my veins with

Where mirth's but mummery, pride.

And sorrows only real be. When Cupid, having me (his slave) descried | Fly from our country pastimes, fly, In Mars's livery, prancing in the press,

Sad troop of human misery ! 'What now, Sir Fool,' said he, 'I would no less.

Come, serene looks,
Look here, I say.' I look'd, and Stella spied,

Clear as the crystal brooks,
Who hard by made a window send forth light. Or the pure azur'd heaven that smiles to see
My heart then quaked, then dazzled were mine eyes ; | The rich attendance of our poverty.
i One hand forgot to rule, th’ other to fight;

Peace and a secure mind,
Nor trumpet's sound I heard, nor friendly cries;

Which all men seek, we only find. "My foe came on, and beat the air for me, Till that her blush taught me my shame to see.

Abused mortals, did you know

Where joy, heart's ease, and comforts grow, Of all the kings that ever here did reign,

You'd scorn proud towers, Edward named Fourth as first in praise I name;

And seek them in these bowers ; Not for his fair outside, nor well-lined brain,

Where winds perhaps our woods may sometimes shake Although less gifts imp feathers oft on Fame:

But blustering care could never tempest make, | Nor that he could, young-wise, wise-valiant, frame

Nor murmurs e'er come nigh us, 1. His sire's revenge, join'd with a kingdom's gain,

Saving of fountains that glide by us.
And, gain'd by Mars, could yet mad Mars so tame,
That Balance weigh'd what Sword did late obtain :

| Blest silent grores ! O may ye be Nor that he made the Flower-de-luce so fraid, For ever mirth's best nursery ! Though strongly hedg'd of bloody Lion's paws,

May pure contents That witty Lewis to him a tribute paid.

For ever pitch their tents Nor this, nor that, nor any such small cause

Upon these downs, these meads, these rocks, these But only for this worthy knight durst prove

mountains, To lose his crown, rather than fail his love.

And peace still slumber by these purling fountains,

Which we may every year
O happy Thames, that didst my Stella bear!

Find when we come a-fishing here.
I saw thee with full many a smiling line
Upon thy cheerful face joy's livery wear,
While those fair planets on thy streams did shine.

[Farewell to Town, by Breton.]
The boat for joy could not to dance forbear;
While wanton winds, with beauties so divine

Thou gallant court, to thee farewell? Ravish'd, staid not, till in her golden hair

For froward fortune me denies They did themselves (O sweetest prison) twine :

Now longer near to thee to dwell. And fain those Eol's youth there would their stay I must go live, I wot not where, Have made ; but, forced by Nature still to fiy,

Nor how to live when I come there. First did with puffing kiss those locks display.

And next, adieu you gallant dames, She, so dishevill'd, blush'd. From window I,

The chief of noble youth's delight! With sight thereof, cried out, “O fair disgrace;

Untoward Fortune now so frames, Let Honour's self to thee grant highest place.'

That I am banish'd from your sight.

And, in your stead, against my will,
1 Press, throng.
I must go live with country Jill.



RICHARD BARXFIELD. CHRISTOPHER MARLOW, so highly eminent as a dramatic writer, would probably have been over. looked in the department of miscellaneous poetry, but for his beautiful piece, rendered familiar by its being transferred into Walton's · Angler'The Passionate Shepherd to his Lore. Joshua SYLVESTER, who died in 1618, at the age of 55, and who was the author of a large volume of poems of very unequal merit, claims notice as the now generally received author of an impressive piece, long ascribed to Raleigh-The Soul's Errand. Another fugitive poem of great beauty, but in a different style, and which has often been attributed to Shakspeare, is now given to Richard BARNFIELD, author of several poetical volumes published between 1594 and 1598. These three remarkable poems are here subjoined :

Now next, my gallant youths, farewell;

My lads that oft have cheered my heart ! My grief of mind no tongue can tell,

To think that I must from you part.
I now must leave you all, alas,
And live with some old lobcock ass !
And now farewell thou gallant lute,

With instruments of music's sounds!
Recorder, citern, harp, and flute,

And heavenly descants on sweet grounds. I now must leave you all, indeed, And make some music on a reed ! And now, you stately stamping steeds,

And gallant geldings fair, adieu !
My heavy heart for sorrow bleeds,

To think that I must part with you:
And on a strawen pannel sit,
And ride some country carting tit!
And now farewell both spear and shield,

Caliver pistol, arquebuss,
See, see, what sighs my heart doth yiell

To think that I must leave you thus;
And lay aside my rapier blade,
And take in hand a ditching spade!
And you farewell, all gallant games,

Primero, and Imperial,
Wherewith I us’d, with courtly dames,

To pass away the time withal :
I now must learn some country plays
For ale and cakes on holidays!
And now farewell each dainty dish,

With sundry sorts of sugar'd wine!
Farewell, I say, fine flesh and fish,

To please this dainty mouth of mine! I now, alas, must leave all these, And make good cheer with bread and cheese! And now, all orders due, farewell !

My table laid when it was noon;
My heavy heart it irks to tell

My dainty dinners all are done:
With leeks and onions, whig and whey,
I must content me as I may.
And farewell all gay garments now,

With jewels rich, of rare device!
Like Robin Hood, I wot not how,

I must go range in woodman's wise;
Clad in a coat of green, or grey,
And glad to get it if I may.
What shall I say, but bid adieu

To every dream of sweet delight,
In place where pleasure never grew,

In dungeon deep of foul despite, I must, ah me! wretch as I may, Go sing the song of welaway!

The Passionate Shepherd to his Lore. Come live with me, and be my love, And we will all the pleasures prove That vallies, groves, and hills and fields, Woods or steepy mountains yields. And we will sit upon the rocks, Seeing the shepherds feed their flocks, By shallow rivers, to whose falls Melodious birds sing madrigals. And I will make thee beds of roses, And a thousand fragrant posies; A cap of flowers and a kirtle, Embroider'd all with leaves of myrtle : A gown made of the finest wool, Which from our pretty lambs we pull; Fair lined slippers for the cold, With buckles of the purest gold : A belt of straw and ivy buds, With coral clasps and amber studs ; And if these pleasures may thee move, Come live with me, and be my love. The shepherd swains shall dance and sing, For thy delight, each May-morning : If these delights thy mind may more Then live with me, and be my love.

[Sonnet by Constable.]

[From his · Diana :' 1591.) To live in hell, and heaven to behold, To welcome life, and die a living death, To sweat with heat, and yet be freezing cold, To grasp at stars, and lie the earth beneath, To tread a maze that never shall have end, To burn in sighs, and starve in daily tears, To climb a hill, and never to descend, Giants to kill, and quake at childish fears, To pine for food, and watch th' Hesperian tres, To thirst for drink, and nectar still to draw, To live accurs'd, whom men hold blest to be, And wecp those wrongs, which never creature saw ; If this be love, if love in these be founded, My heart is love, for these in it are grounded.

[The Nymph's Reply to the Passionate Shepherd.

By Raleigh.]
If all the world and love were young,
And truth in every shepherd's tongue,
These pretty pleasures might me more
To live with thee, and be thy love.
Time drives the flocks from field to fold,
When rivers rage and rocks grow cold;
And Philomel becometh dumb,
The rest complain of cares to come.
The flowers do fade, and wanton fields
To wayward winter reckoning yields;
A honey tongue-a heart of gall,
Is fancy's spring, but sorrow's fall.
Thy gowns, thy shoes, thy beds of roses,
Thy cap, thy kirtle, and thy posies,
Soon break, soon wither, soon forgotten,
In folly ripe, in reason rotten.
Thy belt of straw and ivy buds,
Thy coral clasps and amber studs ;
All these in me no means can move
To come to thee and be thy love.

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