You that alone are the Clarissimi,

And the whole gen'rous state of Venice be,

It shall not be recorded, Sanazar

Shall boast enthron'd alone this new made star;
You whose correcting sweetness hath forbade
Shame to the good, and glory to the bad,
Whose honour hath ev'n into virtue tam'd,
These swarms that now so angrily I nam'd.
Forgive what thus distemper'd I indite,
For it is hard a satire not to write.
Yet às a virgin that heats all her blood,
At the first motion of bad understood,
Then at mere thought of fair chastity,
Straight cools again the tempests of her sea;
So when to you I my devotions raise,

All wrath and storms do end in calms and praise.

A Dialogue betwixt Cordanus and Amoret,
ON A LOST HEART*.

Cord. DISTRESSED pilgrim, whose dark clouded eyes
Speaks thee a martyr to Love's cruelties;
Whither away?

* This Dialogue is taken from Lawes's First Book of Ayres, and compared with a MS. copy in an old miscellaneous volume in the possession of the editor.

Amor.

What pitying voice I hear,

Calls back my flying steps?

Cord.

Pr'ythee draw near

Amor. I shall, but say, kind swain, what doth become Of a lost heart, ere to Elysium

Cord.

It wounded walks?

First it does freely fly

Into the pleasures of a lover's eye,

But once condemn'd to scorn it fetter'd lies
An ever bowing slave to tyrannies.

Amor. I pity its sad fate, since its offence

Was but for love, can't tears recall it thence?

Cord. O no, such tears as do for pity call,

She proudly scorns, and glories at their fall. Amor. Since neither sighs nor tears, kind shepherd tell, Will not a kiss prevail?

Cord.

Thou may'st as well

Court Echo with a kiss.

Amor.

Can no art move

A sacred violence to make her love?

Cord. O no, 'tis only Destiny and Fate

Fashions our wills, either to love or hate. Amor. Then, captive heart, since that no human spell Hath pow'r to grasp thee his, farewell,-fare

well.

CHORUS.

Lost hearts, like lambs drove from their folds by fears, May back return by chance, but ne'er by tears.

TRANSLATIONS.

SANAZARI HEXASTICON.

IN Adriatic waves, when Neptune saw
The city stand, and give the seas a law,
Now i'th' Tarpeian tow'rs Jove rival me,
And Mars his walls impregnable, said he;
Let seas to Tiber yield, view both their odds,
You'll grant that built by men, but this by gods.

IN VIRGILIUM. PENTADII.

A swain, hind, knight; I fed, till'd, did command Goats, fields, my foes; with leaves, a spade, my hand.

DE SCEVOLA.

The hand by which no king but serjeant dies,
Mutius in fire doth freely sacrifice;

The prince admires the hero, quits his pains,
And victor from the siege peace entertains;

Rome's more oblig'd to flames, than arms or pow'r,
When one burnt hand shall the whole war devour.

DE CATONE.

The world o'ercome, victorious Cæsar, he

That conquer'd all; great Cato, could not thee.

ANOTHER.

One stab could not fierce Cato's life untie;
Only his hand of all that wound did die;
Deeper his fingers tear to make a way

Open, through which his mighty soul might stray.
Fortune made this delay, to let us know,

That Cato's hand more than his sword could do.

ANOTHER.

The hand of sacred Cato bade to tear

His breast, did start, and the made wound forbear,
Then to the gash he said with angry brow,
And is there ought great Cato cannot do?

ANOTHER.

What doubt'st thou, hand? Sad Cato, 'tis to kill; But he'll be free, sure, hand, thou doubt'st not still; Cato alive 'tis just all men be free,

Nor conquers he himself now if he die.

PENTADII.

It is not, you're deceiv'd, it is not bliss
What you conceive a happy living is:

To have your hands with rubies bright to glow,
Then on your tortoise-bed your body throw,
And sink yourself in down, to drink in gold,
And have your looser self in purple roll'd;
With royal fare to make the tables groan,
Or else with what from Lybic fields is mown,

Nor in one vault hoard all your magazine,

But at no coward's fate t'have frighted been,
Nor with the people's breath to be swoln great,
Nor at a drawn stiletto basely sweat.

He that dares this, nothing to him's unfit,
But proud o'th' top of Fortune's wheel may sit.

Tully, to thee, Rome's eloquent sole heir,
The best of all that are, shall be, and were:
I, the worst poet, send my best thanks and pray'r,
Ev'n by how much the worst of poets I
By so much you the best of patrons be.

Juvencius, thy fair sweet eyes,
If to my fill that I may kiss,

Three hundred thousand times I'd kiss,
Nor future age should cloy this bliss ;
No, not if thicker than ripe ears,

The harvest of our kisses bears.