The courtly nymphs, acquainted with the moan

Of them, who in their lips love's standards bear

Where he ? (say they of me) now dare I swear He cannot love! No, no ; let him alone.

And think so still ! so Stella know my mind;

Profess indeed I do not Cupid's art : But you, fair maids, at length this true shall find,

That his right badge is but worn in the heart :

Dumb swans, not chirping pies, do lovers prove ; They love indeed, who quake to say they love.

TO SLEEP

[From the Arcadia.]

COME, sleep, O sleep, the certain knot of peace,
The baiting-place of wit, the balm of woe ;
The poor man's wealth, the prisoner's release,
Th’indifferent judge between the high and low.

With shield of proof shield me from out the

prease (a) Of those fierce darts despair doth at me throw : O make in me those civil wars to cease ! I will good tribute pay if thou do so.

Take thou of me smooth pillows, sweetest bed,
A chamber deaf to noise and blind to light,
A rosy garland and a weary head ;
And if these things, as being thine by right,

(a) Press, or crowd.

Move not thy heavy grace, thou shalt in me
Livelier than elsewhere Stella's image see.

SIR WALTER RALEIGH.

SIR WALTER RALEIGH (a) was born in Devonshire in 1552,

and executed in Old Palace Yard, on the 29th October, 1618.

THE SHEPHERD TO THE FLOWERS.

SWEET violets, Love's Paradise, that spread Your gracious odours, which you couched bear

Within your paly faces, Upon the gentle wing of some calm-breathing wind,

That plays amidst the plain !

If, by the favour of propitious stars you gain Such grace, as in my lady's bosom place to find,

Be proud to touch those places : And when her warmth your moisture forth doth

wear, Whereby her dainty parts are sweetly fed, You, honours of the flowery meads, I pray,

You pretty daughters of the earth and sun, With mild and seemly breathing straight display

My bitter sighs, that have my heart undone !

(a) The finest specimen of Raleigh's verse that remains, if it be his, is given in the Specimens of Sacred and Serious Poetry, with a biographical notice.

THE NYMPH's REPLY TO THE

* PASSIONATE SHEPHERD.

If that the world and love were young,
And truth in every shepherd's tongue,
These pretty pleasures might me move
To live with thee and be thy love.

But time drives flocks from field to fold,
When rivers rage, and rocks grow cold ;
And Philomel becometh dumb,
And all complain of cares to come.

The flowers do fade, and wanton fields
To wayward winter's reckoning yield ;
A honey tonguema 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.

But could youth last, and love still breed,
Had joys no date—nor age no need,
Then these delights my mind might move
To live with thee and be thy love.

THOMAS LODGE.

BORN 1556-DIED 1625.

Little is known of this poet, save that he attended the university of Oxford, and studied medicine at Avignon, where he obtained a diploma. He was of the Roman Catholic faith; and when he settled in London as a medical practitioner, he gained extensive practice from the patronage of that party. It is thought he was swept away, among many other unnoticed individuals, by the plague in 1625.

ROSALIND'S MADRIGAL.
Love in my bosom, like a bee,
Doth suck his swcet:
Now with his wings he plays with me,
Now with his feet:
Within mine eyes he makes his nest,
His bed amidst my tender breast;
My kisses are his daily feast,
And yet he robs me of my rest :

Ah! wanton, will ye?

And if I sleep, then pierceth he
With pretty slight;
And makes his pillow of my

knee
The live-long night.
Strike I my lute, he tunes the string,
He music plays if I but sing ;
He lends me every lovely thing,
Yet cruel he my heart doth sting ;

Ah! wanton, will ye?

Else I with roses every day
Will whip ye hence,
And bind ye, when ye long to play,
For your offence;
I'll shut my eyes to keep ye in,
I'll make you fast it for your sin,
I'll count your power not worth a pin ;
Alas! what hereby shall I win

If he gainsay me ?

ܪ

What if I beat the wanton boy
With many a rod ?
He will repay me with annoy,
Because a god.
Then sit thou safely on my knee,
And let thy bower my bosom be;
Lurk in mine eyes, I like of thee,
0, Cupid ! so thou pity me,

Spare not, but play thee.

FROM THE ROMANCE CALLED EUPHUES's

GOLDEN LEGACY.

Turn I my looks unto the skies,
Love with his arrows wounds mine eyes ;
If so I look upon the ground,
Love then in every flower is found ;
Search I the shade to flee my pain,
Love meets me in the shades again ;
Want I to walk in secret grove,
E'en there I meet with sacred love ;
If so I bathe me in the spring,
E'en on the brink I hear him sing ;