Must go upon their knees. Come, violent death,
Serve for mandragora to make me sleep.
Go, tell my brothers: when I am laid out,
They then may feed in quiet.

[They strangle her, kneeling.

Sir Robert Ayton.

A Scottish courtier and poet, Ayton (1570-1638) enjoyed, like Drummond, the advantages of foreign travel, and of acquaintance with English poets. He was born in Fifeshire. Ben Jonson seemed proud of his friendship, for he told Drummond that Sir Robert loved him (Jonson) dearly. An edition of Ayton's poems was published as late as 1871.

ON WOMAN'S INCONSTANCY.

I loved thee once, I'll love no more;
Thine be the grief, as is the blame;
Thou art not what thou wast before:
What reason I should be the same?
He that can love unloved again
Hath better store of love than brain:
God send me love my debts to pay,
While unthrifts fool their love away.

Nothing could have my love o'erthrown,
If thou hadst still continued mine;
Yea, if thou hadst remained thy own,
I might, perchance, have yet been thine.
But thou thy freedom did recall,
That if thou might elsewhere inthrall;
And then how could I but disdain
A captive's captive to remain?

When new desires had conquered thee,
And changed the object of thy will,
It had been lethargy in me,
Not constancy, to love thee still.

Yea, it had been a sin to go
And prostitute affection so;

Since we are taught no prayers to say
To such as must to others pray.

Yet do thou glory in thy choice,

Thy choice of his good fortune boast; I'll neither grieve nor yet rejoice To see him gain what I have lost; The height of my disdain shall be

To laugh at him, to blush for thee; To love thee still, but go no more A-begging to a beggar's door.

Alexander Hume.

Hume (circa 1560-1609) was a minister of the Scotch Kirk in the latter half of the seventeenth century. He published in Edinburgh, in 1599, a collection of "Hymus, or Sacred Songs," of which now only three copies are known to exist. The "Story of a Summer Day" has some precious passages, showing an original vein, but it is much too long. Campbell and Trench have both abridged it, and the same liberty has been taken in the following version. Hume died in 1609.

THE STORY OF A SUMMER DAY.

O perfect Light, which shaid' away
The darkness from the light,
And set a ruler o'er the day,

Another o'er the night,

Thy glory, when the day forth flies,
More vively doth appear
Than at mid-day unto our eyes
The shining sun is clear!

The shadow of the earth anon
Removes and drawés by,
While in the east, when it is gone,

Appears a clearer sky;

Which soon perceive the little larks,

The lapwing, and the snipe,

And tune their songs, like Nature's clerks, O'er meadow, moor, and stripe.

#

The dew upon the tender crops,
Like pearlés white and round,
Or like to melted silver drops,
Refreshes all the ground.
The misty reek, in clouds of rain,

From tops of mountains scales; Clear are the highest hills and plain, The vapors take the vales.

The ample heaven, of fabric sure,
In cleanness doth surpass
The crystal and the silver pure,

Or clearest polished glass.
The time so tranquil is and still,
That nowhere shall ye find,
Save on a high and barren hill,
An air of piping wind.

1 Perfect of the verb to sched, or shed; German, scheiden, to part, or separate from one another.

All laborers draw home at even,

And can to other say,

"Thanks to the gracious God of heaven, Which sent this summer day!"

Thomas Heywood.

The dates of this writer's birth and death are unknown. He is found writing for the stage in 1596, and he continued to exercise his ready pen down to the year 1640. He lived in the reigns of Elizabeth, James I., and Charles I. He had, as he informs his readers, "an entire hand, or at least a main finger," in two hundred and twenty plays. He wrote, also, several prose works, besides attending to his businesss as an actor. Of his plays only twenty-three have come down to us; and among the best is "The Woman killed with Kindness." He seems to have been a man of genius; and his "Search after God" is a very noble poem, showing that, in his higher moods, the true spirit of poesy animated the humble playwright.

FANTASIES OF DRUNKENNESS.

FROM "THE ENGLISH TRAVELLER."

This gentleman and I

Passed but just now by your next neighbor's honse,
Where, as they say, dwells one young Lionel,
An unthrift youth; his father now at sea:
And there, this night, was held a sumptuous feast.
In the height of their carousing, all their brains
Warmed with the heat of wine, discourse was of-

fered

Of ships and storms at sea; when, suddenly,
Out of his giddy wildness, one conceives
The room wherein they quaffed to be a pinnace,
Moving and floating, and the confused noise
To be the murmuring winds, gusts, mariners;
That their unsteadfast footing did proceed
From rocking of the vessel. This conceived,
Each one begins to apprehend the danger,
And to look out for safety. Fly, saith one,
Up to the main-top, and discover. He
Climbs by the bedpost to the tester, there
Reports a turbulent sea and tempest towards,
And wills them, if they'll save their ship and lives,
To cast their lading overboard. At this,

All fall to work, and hoist into the street,
As to the sea, what next came to their hand—
Stools, tables, tressels, trenchers, bedsteads, cups,
Pots, plate, and glasses. Here a fellow whistles;
They take him for the boatswain: one lies strug-

gling

Upon the floor, as if he swam for life;

A third takes the bass-viol for the cock-boat,
Sits in the hollow on't, labors, and rows;

His oar, the stick with which the fiddler played;
A fourth bestrides his fellow, thinking to escape,
As did Arion, on the dolphin's back,

Still fumbling on a gittern. The rude multitude,
Watching without, and gaping for the spoil
Cast from the windows, went by the ears about it.
The constable is called to atone the broil;
Which done, and hearing such a noise within
Of imminent shipwreck, enters the house, and finds
them

In this confusion; they adore his staff,

And think it Neptune's trident; and that he
Comes with his Tritons (so they called his watch)
To calm the tempest, and appease the waves:
And at this point we left them.

SONG: PACK CLOUDS AWAY.
Pack clouds away, and welcome day,
With night we banish sorrow:
Sweet air, blow soft, mount, lark, aloft,
To give my love good-morrow.
Wings from the wind to please her mind,
Notes from the lark I'll borrow;
Bird, prune thy wing! nightingale, sing!
To give my love good-morrow.

To give my love good-morrow,
Notes from them all I'll borrow.

Wake from thy nest, robin-redbreast!
Sing, birds, in every furrow;
And from each bill let music shrill

Give my fair love good-morrow!
Blackbird and thrush, in every bush,
Stare, linnet, and cock-sparrow,
You pretty elves, amongst yourselves,
Sing my fair love good-morrow.

To give my love good-morrow,
Sing, birds, in every furrow.

SEARCH AFTER GOD.

I sought thee round about, O thou, my God! In thine abode :

I said unto the earth, "Speak, art thon he ?" She answered me,

"I am not." I inquired of creatures all,

In general,

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Contained therein: they with one voice proclaim That none amongst them challenged such a name.

I asked the seas and all the deeps below,
My God to know;

I asked the reptiles and whatever is
In the abyss:--

Even from the shrimp to the leviathan
Inquiry ran;

But in those deserts which no line can sound,
The God I sought for was not to be found.

I asked the air if that were he; but lo!
It told me "No."

I from the towering eagle to the wren
Demanded then,

If any feathered fowl 'mongst them were such;
But they all, much

Offended with my question, in full choir, Answered, "To find thy God thou must look higher."

I asked the heavens, sun, moon, and stars; but they Said, "We obey

The God thou seekest." I asked what eye or ear Could see or hear,

What in the world I might descry or know

Above, below;

With an unanimous voice, all these things said, "We are not God, but we by him were made."

I asked the world's great universal mass,
If that God was;

Which with a mighty and strong voice replied,
As stupefied,

"I am not he, O man! for know that I

By him on high

Was fashioned first of nothing; thus instated And swayed by him by whom I was created."

I sought the court; but smooth-tongued flattery there

Deceived each ear;

In the thronged city there was selling, buying,
Swearing and lying;

In the country, craft in simpleness arrayed;
And then I said,—

"Vain is my search, although my pains be great; Where my God is there can be no deceit."

A scrutiny within myself I then

Even thus began:

"O man, what art thou?" What more could I say Than dust and clay,

Frail mortal, fading, a mere puff, a blast,

That cannot last;

Enthroned to-day, to-morrow in an urn,

Formed from that earth to which I must return?

I asked myself what this great God might be That fashioned me?

I answered: The all-potent, sole, immense,Surpassing sense;

Unspeakable, inscrutable, eternal,

Lord over all;

The only terrible, strong, just, and true, Who hath no end, and no beginning knew.

He is the well of life, for he doth give
To all that live

Both breath and being; he is the Creator
Both of the water,

Earth, air, and fire. Of all things that subsist
He hath the list,-

Of all the heavenly host, or what earth claims,
He keeps the scroll, and calls them by their

names.

And now, my God, by thine illumining grace, Thy glorious face

(So far forth as it may discovered be)

Methinks I see;

And though invisible and infinite

To human sight,

Thou, in thy mercy, justice, truth, appearest,
In which, to our weak sense, thou comest nearest.

Oh, make us apt to seek, and quick to find, Thou God, most kind!

Give us love, hope, and faith, in thee to trust, Thou God, most just!

Remit all our offences, we entreat,

Most good! most great!

Grant that our willing, though unworthy, quest May, through thy grace, admit us 'mongst the blest.

SONNET: TO PRINCE HENRY.

God gives not kings the style of gods in vain,
For on the throne his sceptre do they sway;
And as their subjects ought them to obey,
So kings should fear and serve their God again.
If, then, you would enjoy a happy reign,
Observe the statutes of our heavenly King,
And from his law make all your law to spring.
If his lieutenant here you would remain,
Reward the just; be steadfast, true, and plain;
Repress the proud, maintaining aye the right;
Walk always so as ever in His sight

Who guards the godly, plaguing the profane;
And so shall you in princely virtues shine,
Resembling right your mighty King divine.

Thomas Nash.

Nash (circa 1564-1600) wrote a comedy called "Summer's Last Will and Testament," which was acted before Queen Elizabeth in 1592. He was also concerned with Marlowe in writing the tragedy of "Dido." He was the Churchill of his day, and famed for his satires. He speaks of his life as "spent in fantastical satirism, in whose veins heretofore I misspent my spirit, and prodigally conspired against good hours."

SPRING.

Spring, the sweet Spring, is the year's pleasant king; Then blooms each thing, then maids dance in a ring, Cold doth not sting, the pretty birds do sing, Cuckoo, jug-jug, pu-we, to-witt a-woo.

The palm aud May make country houses gay, Lambs frisk and play, the shepherds pipe all day, And we hear aye birds tune this merry lay, Cuckoo, jug-jug, pu-we, to-witt a-woo.

The fields breathe sweet, the daisies kiss our feet,
Young lovers meet, old-wives a-sunning sit,
In every street these tunes our ears do greet,
Cuckoo, jug-jug, pu-we, to-witt a-woo.
Spring, the sweet Spring!

King James J. of England.

James VI. of Scotland and I. of England (1566–1625), the only offspring of Mary, queen of Scots, by her second husband, Henry Stuart (Lord Darnley), was a prolific author, and wrote both prose and verse. The following sonnet from his pen will compare not unfavorably with the verses of some contemporary pocts of fame. It is noteworthy that Mary, her son James, and her grandson, Charles I., all wrote poetry.

THE COMING OF WINTER.

Autumn hath all the summer's fruitful treasure: Gone is our sport, fled is our Croydon's pleasure! Short days, sharp days, long nights, come on apace. Ah, who shall hide us from the winter's face?

Cold doth increase, the sickness will not cease,
And here we lie, God knows, with little ease.
From winter, plague, and pestilence,
Good Lord, deliver us!

London doth mourn, Lambeth is quite forlorn!
Trades cry, woe worth that ever they were born!
The want of term is town and city's harm:
Close chambers we do want to keep us warm.
Long banished must we live now from our friends:
This low-built house will bring us to our ends.
From winter, plague, and pestilence,

Good Lord, deliver us!

THE DECAY OF SUMMER.

Fair Summer droops, droop men and beasts, therefore;

So fair a summer look for nevermore:

All good things vanish less than in a day;
Peace, plenty, pleasure, suddenly decay.

Go not yet away, bright soul of the sad year;
The earth is hell when thou leavest to ap-

pear.

What! shall those flowers that decked thy garland erst

Upon thy grave be wastefully dispersed?
O trees, consume your sap in sorrow's source!
Streams, turn to tears your tributary course!

Go not yet hence, bright soul of the sad year;
The earth is hell when thou leavest to appear.

Sir Henry Wotton.

Wotton (1568-1639), a gentleman of Kent, was ambassador at Venice, under James I., and afterward Provost of Eton. He wrote a short poem "in praise of angling," and was the friend of Izaak Walton. As an early discov erer of Milton's transcendent genius, he showed his superior literary culture. Of the famous little poem, "The Happy Life," Trench tells us there are at least half a dozen texts, with an infinite variety of readings, these being particularly numerous in the third stanza, which is, indeed, somewhat obscure as it now stands. The Reliquiæ Wottoniana, in which the poem was first published, appeared in 1651, some twelve years after Wotton's death; but much earlier MS. copies are in existence: thus one, in the handwriting of Edward Alleyn, apparently of date 1616. In some versions the word accusers is changed to oppressors in the last line of the fourth stanza. A little reflection will show that the former is the preferable word. Both Trench and Palgrave so regard it, and adopt it as the more authentic reading.

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ON HIS MISTRESS, THE QUEEN OF BOHEMIA.

You meaner beauties of the night,
Which poorly satisfy our eyes,

More by your number than your light,-
You common people of the skies,
What are you when the Moon shall rise?

You violets that first appear,

By your pure purple mantles known, Like the proud virgins of the year,

As if the spring were all your own,— What are you when the Rose is blown?

You curious chanters of the wood,

That warble forth Dame Nature's lays, Thinking your passions understood

By your weak accents,-what's your praise, When Philomel her voice doth raise?

So when my Mistress shall be seen
In form and beauty of her mind,
By virtue first, then choice, a Queen,
Tell me, if she were not designed
The eclipse and glory of her kind?

THE HAPPY LIFE.

How happy is he born and taught

That serveth not another's will! Whose armor is his honest thought,

And simple truth his utmost skill!

Whose passions not his masters are; Whose soul is still prepared for death; Not tied unto the world with care

Of public fame or private breath:

Who envies none that chance doth raise,
Or vice; who never understood
How deepest wounds are given by praise;
Nor rules of state, but rules of good:

Who hath his life from rumors freed;

Whose conscience is his strong retreat; Whose state can neither flatterers feed, Nor ruin make accusers great:

Who God doth late and early pray

More of his grace than gifts to lend, And entertains the harmless day With a religious book or friend ;—