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in every other department, his short life was one of bright promise rather than of wonderful achievement; and per. haps at the age of thirty-two the grave never closed over any man who combined such universal accomplishment, with so many amiable qualities, as this darling of the people of England. His learned tutor had recorded on his tomb, that “ he was the tutor of Sir Philip Sydney;" and his friend Sir Fulke Greville, Lord Brooke, who long survived Sydney, had this inscription put on his monument :-“ Fulke Greville, servant of Queen Elizabeth, counsellor to King James, and friend of Sir Philip Sydney. “ The life of Sir Philip Sydney," says Mr Campbell, “ was poetry put in action."


HE that loves, and fears to try,
Learns his mistress to deny.
Doth she chide thee? 'tis to shew it
That thy coldness makes her do it.
Is she silent, is she mute ?
Silence fully grants thy suit.
Doth she pout and leave the room ?
Then she goes to bid thee come.

Is she sick ? why then be sure
She invites thee to the cure.
Doth she cross thy suit with “No ?”
Tush! she loves to hear thee woo.
Doth she call the faith of men
In question ? nay, she loves thee then ;
And if e'er she makes a blot,
She's lost if that thou hit'st her not.

He that, after ten denials,
Dares attempt no farther trials,
Hath no warrant to acquire
The dainties of his chaste desire.


ONLY joy, now here you are,
Fit to hear and ease my care ;
Let my whispering voice obtain
Sweet reward, for sharpest pain.

Take me to thee, and thee to me
No, no, no, no, my dear, let be.

Night hath closed all in her cloak,
Twinkling stars love-thoughts provoke,
Danger hence good care doth keep,
Jealousy itself doth sleep.

Take me, &c.

Better place no wit can find,
Cupid's yoke to loose, or bind :
These sweet flow’rs on fine bed too,
Us in their best language woo.

Take me, &c.


BECAUSE I breathe not love to every one,

Nor do not use such colours for to wear,

Nor nourish special locks of vowed hair, Nor give each speech a full point of a groan ; The courtly nymphs, acquainted with the moan

Of them, who in their lips love's standards bear

Where he ? (say they of me) now dare I swear He cannot love! No, no ; let him alone.

And think so still ! so Stella know my mind;

Profess indeed I do not Cupid's art: But you, fair maids, at length this true shall find,

That his right badge is but worn in the heart :

Dumb swans, not chirping pies, do lovers prove ; They love indeed, who quake to say they love.


[From the Arcadia.]

COME, sleep, O sleep, the certain knot of peace,
The baiting-place of wit, the balm of woe ;
The poor man's wealth, the prisoner's release,
Th' indifferent judge between the high and low.

With shield of proof shield me from out the

prease (a)

Of those fierce darts despair doth at me throw :
O make in me those civil wars to cease !
I will good tribute pay if thou do so.

Take thou of me smooth pillows, sweetest bed,
A chamber deaf to noise and blind to light,
A rosy garland and a weary head ;
And if these things, as being thine by right,

(a) Press, or crowd.

Move not thy heavy grace, thou shalt in me
Livelier than elsewhere Stella's image see.


SIR WALTER RALEIGH (a) was born in Devonshire in 1552,

and executed in Old Palace Yard, on the 29th October, 1618.


SWEET violets, Love's Paradise, that spread Your gracious odours, 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 favour of propitious stars you gain Such grace, as in my lady's bosom place to find,

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

wear, Whereby her dainty parts are sweetly fed, You, honours 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 !

(a) The finest specimen of Raleigh's verse that remains, if it be his, is given in the Specimens of Sacred and Serious Poetry, with a biographical notice.



If that the world and love were young,
And truth in every shepherd's tongue,
These pretty pleasures might me move
To live with thee and be thy love.

But time drives flocks from field to fold,
When rivers rage, and rocks grow cold ;
And Philomel becometh dumb,
And all complain of cares to come.

The flowers do fade, and wanton fields
To wayward winter's reckoning yield ;
A honey tonguea heart of gall,
Is fancy's spring, but sorrow's fall.

Thy gowns, thy shoes, thy beds of roses, Thy cap, thy kirtle, and thy posies, Soon break, soon wither, soon forgotten, In folly ripe, in reason rotten.

Thy belt of straw, and ivy buds,
Thy coral clasps and amber studs ;
All these in me no means can move
To come to thee and be thy love.

But could youth last, and love still breed,
Had joys no date—nor age no need,
Then these delights my mind might move
To live with thee and be thy love.

* Marlowe's song, so called.

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