These beautiful stanzas were written by George Wither, of whom some account was given in the former part of this Volume: see the Song intitled

The Shepherd's Resolution," Book II. Song XXI. In the first Edition of this work only a small fragment of this Sonnet was inserted. It was afterwards rendered more complete and entire by the addition of five Stanzas more, extracted from Wither's pastoral poem, intitled, "The Mistress of Philarete," of which this Song makes a part. It is now given still more correct and perfect by comparing it with another copy, printed by the author in his improved edition of "The Shepherd's Hunting," 1620, 8vo.

HENCE away, thou Syren, leave me,
Pish unclaspe these wanton armes ;
Sugred words can ne'er deceive me,
(Though thou prove a thousand charmes).
Fie, fie, forbeare;

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Fond fooles, adieu;

The subject of this ballad is taken from a folio collection of tragical stories, entitled, “The theatre of God's judgments, by Dr. Beard and Dr. Taylor, 1642." Pt. 2, p. 89.-The text is given (with corrections) from two copies; one of them in blackletter in the Pepys collection. In this every stanza is accompanied with the following distich by way of burden:

"Oh jealousie! thou art nurst in hell:
Depart from hence, and therein dwell."

ALL tender hearts, that ake to hear
Of those that suffer wrong;

All you, that never shed a tear,

Give heed unto my song.

And charging her with great offence, And many a grievous fault;

She bade her servants drag her thence, Into a dismal vault,

That lay beneath the common-shore :

A dungeon dark and deep:

Where they were wont, in days of yore, Offenders great to keep.

There never light of chearful day

Dispers'd the hideous gloom;

But dank and noisome vapours play

Around the wretched room :

And adders, snakes, and toads therein '
As afterwards was known,
Long in this loathsome vault had bin,

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And fiercely her assail.

Which makes the damsel sorely weep, And her sad fate bewail.

Her lady cast a jealous eye
Upon this gentle maid;
And taxt her with disloyaltye;
And did her oft upbraid.

In silence still this maiden meek Her bitter taunts would bear, While oft adown her lovely cheek Would steal the falling tear.

In vain in humble sort she strove Her fury to disarm ;

As well the meekness of the dove The bloody hawke might charm.

Her lord, of humour light and gay,
And innocent the while,

As oft as she came in his way,
Would on the damsell smile

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