ET others sing of knights and Palladins,

LE

In agèd accents, and untimely words!

Paint shadows, in imaginary lines!

Which well the reach of their high wits records :
But I must sing of thee and those fair eyes,
Authentic shall my verse, in time to come,

When yet the unborn shall say, "Lo, where she lies!
Whose beauty made him speak, that else was dumb! "
These are the arks, the trophies I erect,

That fortify thy name against old age;

And these, thy sacred virtues must protect

Against the dark, and Time's consuming rage.

Though th' error of my youth, they shall discover; Suffice they show I lived, and was thy lover!

SAMUEL DANIEL

FROM "HYMEN'S TRIUMPH"

H! I remember well (and how can I

AH

But evermore remember well) when first
Our flame began, when scarce we knew what was
The flame we felt; when as we sat and sighed
And looked upon each other, and conceived
Not what we ail'd, yet something we did ail;
And yet were well, and yet we were not well,
And what was our disease we could not tell.

Then would we kiss, then sigh, then look; and thus In that first garden of our simpleness

We spent our childhood.

But when years began

Το reap the fruit of knowledge, ah, how then
Would she with graver looks, with sweet stern brow
Check my presumption and my forwardness;

Yet still would give me flowers, still would me show
What she would have me, yet not have me know.

SAMUEL DANIEL

DIAPHENIA 1

IAPHENIA like the daffadowndilly,
White as the sun, fair as the lily,

Heigh-ho, how I do love thee!

I do love thee as my lambs

Are beloved of their dams;

How blest were I if thou wouldst prove me.

Diaphenia like the spreading roses,
That in thy sweets all sweets encloses,
Fair sweet, how I do love thee!

I do love thee as each flower

Loves the sun's life-giving power;
For dead, thy breath to life might move me.
Diaphenia like to all things blessed
When all thy praises are expressèd,
Dear joy, how I do love thee!

As the birds do love the spring,
Or the bees their careful king:
Then in requite, sweet virgin, love me!

HENRY CONSTABLE

MY Lady's presence makes the Roses red,

Because to see her lips they blush for shame.
The Lily's leaves, for envy, pale became ;
And her white hands in them this envy bred.
The Marigold the leaves abroad doth spread;

1 Chosen by Mr. Palgrave for the first edition of his Golden Treasury, but omitted from the later editions. It is printed here because it is a little poem truly "old and plain" which "dallies with the innocence of love" in a manner rarely equalled and never surpassed.

2 Diana, or, The Excellent Conceitful Sonnets of H. C., a sonnet sequence. This is Sonnet 9.

Because the sun's and her power is the same.
The Violet of purple colour came,

Dyed in the blood she made my heart to shed.

In brief: All flowers from her their virtue take ;
From her sweet breath, their sweet smells do proceed;
The living heat which her eyebeams doth make
Warmeth the ground, and quickeneth the seed.

The rain, wherewith she watereth the flowers,
Falls from mine eyes, which she dissolves in showers.
HENRY CONSTABLE

WERE I AS BASE 1

ERE I as base as is the lowly plain,

WERE

And you, my Love, as high as heaven above, Yet should the thoughts of me, your humble swain, Ascend to heaven, in honour of my Love. Were I as high as heaven above the plain, And you, my Love, as humble and as low As are the deepest bottoms of the main, Wheresoe'er you were, with you my Love should go. Were you the earth, dear Love, and I the skies, My Love should shine on you like to the sun, And look upon you with ten thousand eyes

Till heaven wax'd blind, and till the world were done. Wheresoe'er I am, below, or else above you, Wheresoe'er you are, my heart shall truly love you. JOSHUA SYLVESTER

SONNETS FROM "IDEA" 2

SINCE, no help, come, ne more of me,

INCE there's no help, come, let us kiss and part.

And I am glad, yea, glad with all my heart,

1 This fine sonnet is usually given to Joshua Sylvester, though it does not appear in the collected edition of his works (1641). 2 This magnificent sonnet, which so strongly suggests the work of Shakespeare, is No. 61 in a sonnet sequence by Drayton called "Idea". The others here printed are Nos. 37 and 4 respectively.

That thus so cleanly I myself can free!
Shake hands for ever, cancel all our vows,
And, when we meet at any time again,
Be it not seen in either of our brows
That we one jot of former love retain.
Now, at the last gasp of Love's latest breath,
When, his pulse failing, Passion speechless lies,
When Faith is kneeling by his bed of death,
And Innocence is closing up his eyes,

Now if thou wouldst, when all have given him over, From death to life thou might'st him yet recover. MICHAEL DRAYTON

DEAR! why should you command me to my rest,

When now the night doth summon all to sleep?

Methinks, this time becometh lovers best!

Night was ordained, together friends to keep.
How happy are all other living things,

Which, through the day, disjoined by several flight,
The quiet evening yet together brings,
And each returns unto his Love at night!

O thou that art so courteous else to all,

Why shouldst thou, Night, abuse me only thus,
That every creature to his kind dost call,
And yet 'tis thou dost only sever us ?

Well could I wish, it would be ever day;
If, when night comes, you bid me go away!
MICHAEL DRAYTON

RIGHT star of beauty, on whose eyelids sit

BRIGHT

A thousand nymph-like and enamoured graces, The goddesses of memory and wit,

Which there in order take their several places,
In whose dear bosom sweet delicious Love
Lays down his quiver which he once did bear,
Since he that blessèd paradise did prove,

And leaves his mother's lap to sport him there;
Let others strive to entertain with words-
My soul is of a braver metal made;

I hold that vile, which vulgar wit affords ;
In me's that faith which time cannot invade.
Let what I praise be still made good by you:
Be you most worthy, whilst I am most true.
MICHAEL DRAYTON

I

TO HIS COY LOVE

PRAY thee leave, love me no more,
Call home the heart you gave me :

I but in vain that Saint adore

That can, but will not save me.
These poor half-kisses kill me quite ;

Was ever man thus servèd,
Amidst an ocean of delight

For pleasure to be stervèd?

Show me no more those snowy breasts,
With azure riverets branched,
Where, whilst mine eye with plenty feasts,
Yet is my thirst not staunched.
O Tantalus! thy pains ne'er tell,—
By me thou art prevented :
'Tis nothing to be plagued in hell,
But thus in heaven tormented!

Clip me no more in those dear arms,
Nor thy life's comfort call me!
O these are but too powerful charms,
And do but more enthrall me.
But see how patient I am grown

In all this coil about thee !

Come, Nice Thing! let thy heart alone,

I cannot live without thee.

MICHAEL DRAYTON