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All these good parts a perfect woman make ;
Add love to me, they make a perfect wife;
Without her love, her beauty I should take
As that of pictures dead--that gives it life;
Till then her beauty, like the sun, doth shine
Alike to all ;--that only makes it mine.

WILLIAM SHAKSPEARE.

BORN 1564.-DIED 1616.

FROM HIS SONNETS.

SONNET 2.
WHEN forty winters shall besiege thy brow,
And dig deep trenches in thy beauty's field,
Thy youth's proud livery, so gazed on now,
Will be a tatter'd weed of small worth held;
Then being ask'd where all thy beauty lies,
Where all the treasure of thy lusty days.

“ within thine own deep sunken eyes," Were an all-eating shame and thriftless praise; How much more praise deserv'd thy beauty's use, If thou could'st answer “ This fair child of mine Shall sum my count, and make

my

old excuse,” Proving his beauty by succession thine: This were to be new-made when thou art old, And see thy blood warm when thou feel'st it cold.

To say

SONNET 54.

On! how much more doth Beauty beauteous seem,
By that sweet ornament which truth doth give !
The rose looks fair, but fairer we it deem
For that sweet odour which doth in it live;
The canker'd blooms have full as deep a dye,
As the perfumed tincture of the roses,
Hang on such thorns, and play as wantonly,
When summer's breath their masked buds discloses;
But, for their virtue only is their shew,
They live unwoo'd, and unrespected fade,
Die to themselves-Sweet roses do not so,
Of their sweet deaths are sweetest odours made ;
And so of you, beauteous and lovely youth,
When that shall fade my verse distils your truth.

SONNET 116.

Let me not to the marriage of true minds
Admit impediments. Love is not love
Which alters when it alteration finds,
Or bends with the remover to remove;
O no, it is an ever-fixed mark
That looks on tempests and is never shaken ;
It is the star to every wandering bark,
Whose worth's unknown, although his height be

taken. Love's not Time's fool, though rosy lips and cheeks Within his bending sickle's compass come;

Love alters not with his brief hours and weeks,
But bears it out even to the edge of doom :
If this be error, and upon me prov'd,
I never writ, nor no man ever loved.

SONNET 145.

Those lips, that Love's own hand did make,
Breath'd forth the sound that said “I hate,"
To me that languish for her sake.
But when she saw my woeful state,
Straight in her heart did mercy come,
Chiding that tongue that, ever sweet,
Was us'd in giving gentle doom ;
And taught it thus anew to greet :
66 I hate” she alter'd with an end
That follow'd it as gentle day
Doth follow night, who, like a fiend,
From heav'n to hell is flown away
“ I hate"-from hate away she threw,
And sav'd my life, saying "not you."

SIR WALTER RALEIGH,

BORN 1552.-DIED 1618.

Ir is difficult exactly to estimate the poetical character of this great man, as many of the pieces that are ascribed to him have not been authenticated. Among these is the “ Soul's Farewell,” which possesses a fire of imagination that we would willingly ascribe to him, but his claim to it, as has been already mentioned, is exceedingly doubtful. The tradition of his having written it on the night before his execution, is highly interesting to the fancy, but, like many fine stories, it has the little defect of being untrue, as the poem was in existence more than 20 years before his death. It has accordingly been placed in this collection, with several other pieces to which his name has been conjecturally affixed, among the anonymous poetry of that period.

Sir Walter was born at Hayes Farm, in Devonshire, and studied at Oxford. Leaving the university at seventeen, he fought for six years under the Protestant banners in France, and afterwards served a campaign in the Netherlands. He next distinguished himself in Ireland during the rebellion of 1580, under the lord deputy Lord Grey de Wilton, with whom his personal disputes eventually promoted his fortunes, for being heard in his own cause on returning to England, he won the favour of Elizabeth,

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who knighted him, and raised him to such honours as alarmed the jealousy of her favourite Leicester.

In the mean time, as early as 1579, he had commenced his adventures with a view to colonize Ame. rica-surveyed the territory now called Virginia, in 1584, and fitted out successive fleets in support of the infant colony. In the destruction of the Spanish armada, as well as in the expedition to Portugal in behalf of Don Antonio, he had his full share of action and glory; and though recalled, in 1592, from the appointment of general of the expedition against Panama, he must have made a princely fortune by the success of his fleet, which sailed

that occasion, and returned with the richest prize that had ever been brought to England. The queen was about this period so indignant with him for an amour which he had with one of her maids of honour, that, though he married the lady (she was the daughter of Sir Nicholas Throgmorton), her majesty committed him, with his fair partņer, to the Tower. The queen forgave him, however, at last, and rewarded his services with a grant of the manor of Sherborne, in Dorsetshire, where he built a magnificent seat. Raleigh's mind was not one that was destined to travel in the wheel-ruts of common prejudice. It was rumoured that he had carried the freedom of his philosophical speculation to an heretical height on many subjects; and his acceptance of the church lands of Sherborne, already mentioned, probably supplied additional motives to the clergy

upon

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