Yet rich in zeal (though poor in learning's lore), And friendly care obscured in secret breast, And love that envy in thy life suppressed,Thy dear life done,—and death hath doubled more. And I, that in thy time and living state

Did only praise thy virtues in my thought, As one that seeld the rising sun hath sought, With words and tears now wail thy timeless fate. Drawn was thy race aright from princely line; Nor less than such, by gifts that nature gave,The common mother that all creatures have,— Doth virtue show, and princely lineage shine. A king gave thee thy name; a kingly mind,That God thee gave,-who found it now too dear For this base world, and hath resumed it near To sit in skies, and sort with powers divine.

Kent thy birth-days, and Oxford held thy youth; The heavens made haste, and stayed nor years nor time;

The fruits of age grew ripe in thy first prime; Thy will, thy words; thy words the seals of truth.

Great gifts and wisdom rare employed thee thence, To treat from kings with those more great than kings;

Such hope men had to lay the highest things On thy wise youth, to be transported hence.

Whence to sharp wars sweet honour did thee call, Thy country's love, religion, and thy friends; Of worthy men the marks, the lives, and ends, And her defence, for whom we labour all.

There didst thou vanquish shame and tedious age, Grief, sorrow, sickness, and base fortune's might; Thy rising day saw never woeful night,

But passed with praise from off this worldly stage.

Back to the camp by thee that day was brought,
First thine own death; and after, thy long fame;
Tears to the soldiers; the proud Castilian's shame;
Virtue expressed, and honour truly taught.
What hath he lost that such great grace hath won ?
Young years for endless years, and hope unsure
Of fortune's gifts for wealth that still shall dure :
O happy race, with so great praises run!

England doth hold thy limbs, that bred the same;

Flanders thy valour, where it last was tried; The camp thy sorrow, where thy body died; Thy friends thy want; the world thy virtue's fame

Nations thy wit; our minds lay up thy love;

;

Letters thy learning; thy loss years long to come; In worthy hearts sorrow hath made thy tomb; Thy soul and spright enrich the heavens above.

Thy liberal heart embalmed in grateful tears, Young sighs, sweet sighs, sage sighs, bewail thy fall;

Envy her sting, and spite hath left her gall; Malice herself a mourning garment wears.

That day their Hannibal died, our Scipio fell,— Scipio, Cicero, and Petrarch of our time; Whose virtues, wounded by my worthless rhyme, Let angels speak, and heaven thy praises tell.

IV.

A VISION UPON THIS CONCEIT OF

THE FAIRY QUEEN.'

(1590.)

ETHOUGHT I saw the grave where
Laura lay,

Within that temple where the vestal
flame

Was wont to burn: and, passing by that way,
To see that buried dust of living fame,
Whose tomb fair Love and fairer Virtue kept,
All suddenly I saw the Fairy Queen,
At whose approach the soul of Petrarch wept;
And from thenceforth those graces were not seen,
For they this Queen attended; in whose stead
Oblivion laid him down on Laura's hearse.
Hereat the hardest stones were seen to bleed,
And groans of buried ghosts the heavens did
pierce :

Where Homer's spright did tremble all for grief,
And cursed the access of that celestial thief.

1

Appended to Spenser's "Fairy Queen," books i.-iii., 1590, p. 596.

V.

ANOTHER OF THE SAME.1

(1590.)

HE praise of meaner wits this work like
profit brings,

As doth the cuckoo's song delight when
Philumena sings.

If thou hast formed right true virtue's face herein, Virtue herself can best discern, to whom they written bin.

If thou hast beauty praised, let her sole looks

divine

Judge if aught therein be amiss, and mend it by

her eine.

If Chastity want aught, or Temperance her due, Behold her princely mind aright, and write thy Queen anew.

Meanwhile she shall perceive how far her virtues

soar

Above the reach of all that live, or such as wrote

of yore:

And thereby will excuse and favour thy good will, Whose virtue cannot be expressed but by an angel's

quill.

Of me no lines are loved nor letters are of price, Of all which speak our English tongue, but those of thy device.

1 From the same; signed W. R.

VI.

REPLY TO MARLOWE.

1. MARLOWE'S SONG.

THE PASSIONATE SHEPHERD TO HIS LOVE.1

(Before 1593.)

OME live with me, and be my love ;
And we will all the pleasures prove
That hills and valleys, dales and fields,
Woods, or steepy mountain 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
Embroidered 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;

Dyce's "Marlowe," iii. 299. An imperfect copy was printed in the "Passionate Pilgrim" in 1599, and it is quoted in the "Merry Wives of Windsor," iii. 1. It was printed at length with Marlowe's name in "England's Helicon," 1600; and also in Walton's "Complete Angler," 1653, as that smooth song which was made by Kit Marlow, now at least fifty years ago." Marlowe died sixty years before,-in 1593.