XXXVII.

A SONG OF COMPARISONS.

THE lowest trees have tops; the ant her gall;

The fly her spleen; the little sparks their heat : The slender hairs cast shadows, though but small ; And bees have stings although they be not great.

Seas have their surges, so have shallow springs;
And love is love, in beggars as in kings.
Where rivers smoothest run, deep are the fords;
The dial stirs, yet none perceives it move;
The firmest faith is in the fewest words;

The turtles cannot sing, and yet they love.
True hearts have eyes, and ears, no tongues to

speak;

They hear, and see, and sigh; and then they break.-Anon.

XXXVIII.

COUNTRY AND CITY.

JACK and Joan, they think no ill,
But loving live, and merry still;
Do their week days' work, and pray

Devoutly on the holy day;

Skip and trip it on the green,

And help to choose the Summer Queen ;

Lash out at a country feast

Their silver penny with the best.

Well can they judge of nappy ale,

And tell at large a winter tale ;
Climb up to the apple loft,

And turn the crabs till they be soft.

Tib is all the father's joy,

And little Tom the mother's boy ;—

All their pleasure is Content;
And care, to pay their yearly rent.

Joan can call by name her cows
And deck her windows with green boughs;
She can wreaths and tutties make,
And trim with plums a bridal cake.
Jack knows what brings gain or loss;
And his long flail can stoutly toss :
Makes the hedge which others break,
And ever thinks what he doth speak.
---Now, you courtly dames and knights,
That study only strange delights;
Though you scorn the homespun gray,
And revel in your rich array;

Though your tongues dissemble deep,
And can your heads from danger keep;
Yet, for all your pomp and train,
Securer lives the silly swain.-T. Campion.

XXXIX.

A PASTORAL.

ON a hill there grows a flower,
Fair befall the dainty sweet!
By that flower there is a bower,
Where the heavenly Muses meet.
In that bower there is a chair,

Fringed all about with gold;
Where doth sit the fairest fair

That ever eye did yet behold.

It is Phillis fair and bright,

She that is the shepherd's joy ;

She that Venus did despite,
And did blind her little boy.

This is she, the wise, the rich,
That the world desires to see;
This is ipsa que the which,
There is none but only she.

Who would not this face admire?
Who would not this saint adore?
Who would not this sight desire,
Though he thought to see no more?

Oh fair eyes, yet let me see,

One good look, and I am gone; Look on me, for I am he,

Thy poor silly Corydon.

Thou that art the shepherd's queen,
Look upon thy silly swain ;

By thy comfort have been seen
Dead men brought to life again.

Nicholas Breton.

XL.

LOVE THE ADVENTURER.

OVER the mountains

And over the waves,

Under the fountains

And under the graves;
Under floods that are deepest,
Which Neptune obey,

Over rocks that are steepest
Love will find out the way.

Where there is no place

For the glow-worm to lie;
Where there is no space
For receipt of a fly;

Where the midge dares not venture,
Lest herself fast she lay;
If Love come, he will enter
And find out the way.

You may esteem him

A child for his might; Or you may deem him

A coward from his flight;

But if she whom Love doth honour
Be concealed from the day,
Set a thousand guards upon her,
Love will find out the way.

Some think to lose him

By having him confined; And some do suppose him,

Poor heart! to be blind; But if ne'er so close you wall him, Do the best that you may, Blind Love, if so ye call him, Will find out his way.

You may train the eagle

To stoop to your fist;

Or you may inveigle

The phoenix of the east ;

The lioness, you may move her

To give o'er her prey;
But you'll ne'er stop a lover,
He will find out his way.

If the earth should part him,
He would gallop it o'er;

If the seas should o'erthwart him,
He would swim to the shore.

Should his Love become a swallow,
Through the air to stray,
Love will lend wings to follow,
And will find out the way.

There is no striving

To cross his intent,
There is no contriving

His plots to prevent;

But if once the message greet him,
That his true-love doth stay,

If death should come and meet him,
Love will find out the way.—Anon.

XLI.

TIME NOT LOVE PASSES.

To me, fair Friend, you never can be old,
For as you were when first your eye I eyed,
Such seems your beauty still. Three winters cold
Have from the forests shook three summers' pride,

Three beauteous springs to yellow autumn turn'd
In process of the season have I seen,
Three April perfumes in three hot Junes burn'd,
Since first I saw you fresh, which yet are green.

Ah! yet doth beauty, like a dial-hand,
Steal from his figure, and no pace perceived;
So your sweet hue, which methinks still doth
stand,

Hath motion, and mine eye may be deceived:

For fear of which, hear this, thou age unbred; Ere you were born, was beauty's summer dead. Shakespeare.