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May, then young, his pied weeds showing
New perfum'd with flowers fresh growing:
Astrophel, with Stella sweet,
Did for mutual comfort meet;
Both within themselves oppressed,
But each in the other blessed.
Him great harms had taught much care ;
Her fair neck a foul yoke bare:
But her sight his cares did banish;
In his sight, her yoke did vanish.
Wept they had, alas! the while,
But now tears themselves did smile,
While their eyes, by love directed,
Interchangably reflected.
Sigh they did ; but now betwixt
Sighs of woes, were glad sighs mixt.

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Astrophel," said she, "my love, Cease in these effects to prove. Now be still: yet still believe me Thy grief more than death would grieve me. If that any thought in me Can taste comfort but of thee; Let me,

fed with hellish anguish, Joyless, hopeless, endless, languish! If those eyes you praised, be Half so dear as you to me,

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Sir Walter Raleigh possessed a great variety of talent: he wrote several poems which have much merit. His poems, however, have not been collected, and the authenticity of some ascribed to him, is doubtful; the same pieces are variously ascribed to him and to Sylvester.


Sweet violets, Love's Paradise, that spread
Your precious odors, 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 favor of propitious stars you gain Such grace, as in my lady's bosom place you find,

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

Whereby her dainty parts are sweetly fed, You, honors 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!


Passions are liken'd best to floods and streams;

The shallow murmur but the deep are dumb; So, when affections yield discourse, it seems

The bottom is but shallow, whence they come. They that are rich in words, must needs discover, They are but poor in that which makes a lover.

Wrong not, sweet mistress of my heart,
The merit of true passion,
With thinking that he feels no smart,
Who sues for no compassion.
Since, if my plaints were not t approve,
The conquest of thy beauty,
It comes not from defect of love,
But fear t exceed my duty.
For, knowing that I sue to serve
A saint of such perfection,
As all desire, but none deserve,
A place in her affection;
I rather choose to want relief,
Than venture the revealing ;
Where glory recommends the grief,

Despair disdains the healing.
Silence in love betrays more woe
Than words, though ne'er so witty ;
A beggar that is dumb, you know,
May challenge double pity.
Then wrong not, dearest to my heart,
My love for secret passion ;
He smarteth most who hides his smart,
And sues for no compassion.


Methought I saw the grave where Laura lay,
Within that temple where the vestal flame,
Was wont to burn; and passing by that way
To see that buried dust of living fame,
Whose tomb fair Love and fairer Virtue kept,
All suddenly I saw the Fairy Queen,
At whose approach the soul of Petrarch wept;
And from thenceforth those Graces were not seen,
For they this Queen attended ; in whose stead
Oblivion laid him down on Laura's hearse.
H the hardest stones were seen to bleed,
And groans of buried ghosts the heavens did pierce,
Where Homer's sprite did tremble all for grief,
And cursed th'access of that celestial thief.


E’en such is time; which takes in trust

Our youth, our joys, and all we have !
And pays us nought but age and dust,

Which, in the dark and silent grave,
When we have wander'd all our ways,
Shuts up the story of our days.
And from which grave, and earth, and dust,
The Lord shall raise me up, I trust.

The works of Sylvester are chiefly translations. His claim to the poem of the Soul's Errand is denied ; there seems to be, however, a resemblance between this and the fragment, A Contented Mind, both of which Mr. Ellis has placed in the collection of his poems.


I weigh not Fortune's frown or smile,
I joy not much in earthly joys;
I seek not state, I reck not style,
I am not fond of fancy's toys;

I rest so pleas'd with what I have,

I wish no more, no more I crave.
I quake not at the thunder's crack,
I tremble not at noise of war,
I swoon not at the news of wrack,
I shrink not at a blazing star:

I fear not loss, I hope not gain;
I envy none,

I none disdain.
I see ambition never pleased,
I see some Tantals starv'd in store;
I see gold's dropsy seldom'd eas'd,
I see e'en Midas


for more.
I neither want, nor yet abound:

Enough's a feast; content is crown'd.
I feign not friendship where I hate,
I fawn not on the great in show,
I prize, I praise a mean estate,
Neither too lofty nor too low;

This, this all my choice, my cheer,
A mind content, a conscience clear.

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