STELLA!

TELLA! the fullness of my thoughts of thee Can not be stay'd within my panting breast ; But they do swell and struggle forth of me Till that in words thy figure be express'd: And yet, as soon as they so formed be, According to my lord Love's own behest, With sad eyes I their weak proportion see To portrait that which in this world is best. So that I can not choose but write my mind, And can not choose but put out what I write : While these poor babes their death in birth do find. And now my pen these lines had dashed quite, But that they stopp'd his fury from the same Because their fore-front bare sweet Stella's name.

ALAS! have I not pain enough, my friend!

Upon whose breast a fiercer gripe doth tire Than did on him who first stole down the fire, While Love on me doth all his quiver spend, But with your rhubarb words you must contend To grieve me worse, in saying that Desire Doth plunge my well-form'd soul even in the mire. Of sinful thoughts which do in ruin end? If that be sin which doth the manners frame, Well-staid with truth in word and faith of deed, Ready of wit, and fearing nought but shame,— If that be sin which in fix'd hearts doth breed A loathing of all loose unchastity,— Then love is sin, and let me sinful be!

F

JOY too high for my low style to show!

O bliss fit for a nobler state than me!
Envy! put out thine eyes, lest thou do see
What oceans of delight in me do flow!

My friend! that oft saw through all masks my woe,
Come, come, and let me pour myself on thee!
Gone is the Winter of my misery ;

My Spring appears: O see what here doth grow!
For Stella hath, with words where faith doth shine,
Of her high heart given me the monarchy.

I, I,— O, I may say that she is mine!

And though she give but thus conditionly,

This realm of bliss while virtuous course I take,

No kings be crown'd but they some covenants make.

Y MUSE may well grudge at my heavenly joy If still I force her in sad rhymes to creep: She oft hath drunk my tears now hopes to enjoy Nectar of mirth, since I Jove's cup do keep. Sonnets be not bound 'prentice to annoy ; Trebles sing high, so well as bases deep. Grief but Love's winter livery is the boy Hath cheeks to smile, so well as eyes to weep. Come then, my Muse! show thou height of delight In well-raised notes; my pen, the best it may, Shall paint out joy though but in black and white. Cease, eager Muse! peace, pen! for my sake stay! I give you here my hand for truth of this: Wise silence is best music unto bliss.

SIR EDWARD DYER

THE FRIEND'S REMONSTRANCE

PROMETHEUS, when first from heaven high

He brought down fire, ere then on earth not seen, Fond of delight, a Satyr, standing by,

Gave it a kiss, as it like sweet had been.

Feeling forthwith the other burning power,

Wood with the smart, with shouts and shrieking shrill,

He sought his ease in river, field, and bower;

But for the time his grief went with him still.
So silly I, with that unwonted sight,

In human shape an angel from above,

Feeding mine eyes, the impression there did light;
That since I run and rest as pleaseth Love.

The difference is: the Satyr's lips—my heart,—
He for a while, I evermore have smart.

A

HIS ANSWER

SATYR once did run away for dread

With sound of horn which he himself did blow: Fearing and fear'd, thus from himself he fled, Deeming strange ill in that he did not know. Such causeless fears when coward minds do take, It makes them fly that which they fain would have : As this poor beast, who did his rest forsake, Thinking not why but how himself to save.

Even thus might I, for doubts which I conceive
Of mine own words, my own good hap betray;
And thus might I, for fear of may-be, leave
The sweet pursuit of my desirèd prey.
Better like I thy Satyr, dearest Dyer!
Who burn'd his lips to kiss fair shining fire.

Philip Sidney.

H

ON SIDNEY'S DEATH

OW LONG with vain complaining,

With dreary tears and joys refraining,

Shall we renew his dying

Whose happy soul is flying,

Not in a place of sadness,

But in eternal gladness?

Sweet Sidney lives in heaven: then let our weeping Be turn'd to hymns and songs of pleasant keeping!

Thomas Watson

TIME

THOMAS WATSON

OF TIME

'IME wasteth years and months and days and hours :
Time doth consume fame, honour, wit, and strength :
Time kills the greenest herbs and sweetest flowers:
Time wears out youth and beauty's looks at length:
Time doth convey to ground both foe and friend,
And each thing else but Love, which hath no end.
Time maketh every tree to die and rot:
Time turneth oft our pleasures into pain:
Time causeth wars and wrongs to be forgot:

Time clears the sky which first hung full of rain:
Time makes an end of all humane desire,
But only this which sets my heart on fire.
Time turneth into nought each princely state :
Time brings a flood from new resolvèd snow:
Time calms the sea where tempest was of late :
Time eats whate'er the moon can see below:
And yet no time prevails in my behoof,
Nor any time can make me cease to love.

JEALOUS OF GANYMEDE

HIS latter night, amidst my troubled rest,

THE

A dismal dream my fearful heart appall'd,
Whereof the sum was this: Love made a feast,

To which all neighbour Saints and Gods were call'd:
The cheer was more than mortal men can think,
And mirth grew on by taking in their drink.