And lo! a sweet-tongued Nightingale,
Tender adorer of the Morn,

In him I found that One and All.
For that same faithful bird and true,
Sweet and kind and constant lover,
Wond'rous passion did discover,
From the terrace of an eugh.1
And tho' ungrateful she appear'd
Unmoved with all she saw and heard;
Every day, before 'twas day,

More and kinder things he'd say.
Courteous, and never to be lost,
Return'd not with complaints, but praise
Loving, and all at his own cost;
Suffering, and without hope of ease:
For with a sad and trembling throat
He breathes into her breast this note :
"I love thee not, to make thee mine;
But love thee, 'cause thy form's divine."

The true Absence in Love.

Zelidaura, star divine,

[Act ii., p. 48.]

Thou do'st in highest orb of beauty shine;

Pardon'd Murd'ress, by that heart

Itself, which thou dost kill, and coveted smart;

Though my walk so distant lies

From the sunshine of thine eyes;
Into sullen shadows hurl'd,

To lie here buried from the world

"Tis the least reason of my moan,

That so much earth is 'twixt us thrown.

"Tis absence of another kind,

Grieves me; for where you are 2 present too,
Love's Geometry does 3 find,

I have ten thousand miles to you.

'Tis not absence to be far,
But to abhor is to absent;

To those who in disfavour are,

Sight itself is banishment.*

To a Warrioress.

Heav'n, that created thee thus warlike, stole

Into a woman's body a man's soul.

[Yew.]

[Act iii., p. 121.]

["Y'are."]["Doth."] 'Claridoro, rival to Felisbravo, speaks this.

But nature's law in vain dost thou gainsay;
The woman's valour lies another way.

The dress, the tear, the blush, the witching eye,
More witching tongue, are beauty's armoury:
To rally to discourse in companies,

Who's fine, who courtly, who a wit, who wise;
And with the awing sweetness of a Dame,
As conscious of a face can tigers tame,
By tasks and circumstances to discover,
Amongst the best of Princes, the best Lover;
(The fruit of all those flowers) who serves with most
Self diffidence, who with the greatest boast;
Who twists an eye of Hope in braids of Fear;
Who silent (made for nothing but to bear
Sweet scorn and injuries of love) envies
Unto his tongue the treasure of his eyes:
Who, without vaunting shape, hath only wit;
Nor knows to hope reward, tho' merit it:
Then, out of all, to make a choice so rare,
So lucky-wise, as if thou wert not fair.'

[Act i, p. 10.] All Mischiefs reparable but a lost Love.

To foreign temple bare
Good pattern, fervent prayer,
Spurr'd by a pious vow;

Measuring so large a space,

That earth lack'd regions for his plants to trace;

1 Addressed to Zelidaura.

2["Tomb."]

3 Soles of his feet.

IV.

Joyful returns, tho' poor:
And, just by his abode,
Falling into a road

Which laws did ill secure,

Sees plunder'd by a thief

(O happier man than I!) for 'tis his life.

V.

Conspicuous grows a Tree,
Which wanton did appear,
First fondling of the year,
With smiling bravery,

And in his blooming pride

The Lower House of Flowers did deride :

VI.

When his silk robes and fair

(His youth's embroidery,1

The crownet of a spring,

Narcissus of the air)

Rough Boreas doth confound,

And with his trophies strews the scorned ground.

Trusted to tedious hope

VII.

So many months the Corn;

Which now begins to turn

Into a golden crop:

The lusty grapes, (which plump

Are the last farewell of the summer's pomp).

VIII.

How spacious spreads the vine !-—
Nursed up with how much care,
She lives, she thrives, grows fair;
'Bout her loved Elm doth twine :-
Comes a cold cloud; and lays,
In one, the fabric of so many days.

A silver River small

In sweet accents

His music vents,

(The warbling virginal,

IX.

To which the merry birds do sing-
Timed with stops of gold the silver3 string) :

1["Embellishing."]

2

2 Allusions to the Tagus, and golden sands.

["Chrystal."]

THE DOWNFALL OF ROBERT, EARL OF HUNTINGDON. AN HISTORICAL PLAY [PUBLISHED 1601 PRODUCED 1598]. BY T. HEYWOOD, 1601. [REALLY BY ANTHONY MUNDAY (1553-1685), TOUCHED UP BY HENRY CHETTLE (DIED 1607?)]

CHORUS; SKELTON, the Poet.

Skelton (to the Audience). The Youth that leads yon virgin by

the hand

As doth the Sun the Morning richly clad,

Is our Earl Robert-or your Robin Hood-
That in those days was Earl of Huntingdon.

[Act i., Sc. 1.]

1[For further extracts from this play see Appendix, p. 584.]
2[Dodsley, ed. Hazlitt, vol. viii.]

Robin recounts to Marian the pleasures of a forest life.
Robin. Marian, thou see'st, tho' courtly pleasures want,
Yet country sport in Sherwood is not scant:
For the soul-ravishing delicious sound

Of instrumental music, we have found
The winged quiristers, with divers notes
Sent from their quaint recording pretty throats,
On every branch that compasseth our bower,
Without command contenting us each hour.
For arras hangings and rich tapestry,
We have sweet Nature's best embroidery.
For thy steel glass, wherein thou wont'st to look,
Thy chrystal eyes gaze in a chrystal brook.
At Court a flower or two did deck thy head;
Now with whole garlands it is circled :

For what we want in wealth, we have in flowers;

And what we lose in halls, we find in bowers.

Marian. Marian hath all, sweet Robert, having thee;

And guesses thee as rich in having me.

[Act iii., Sc. 2.]

Scarlet recounts to Scathlock the pleasures of an Outlaw's life.

Scarlet. It's full seven years since we were outlaws first,

And wealthy Sherwood was our heritage.

For all those years we reigned uncontroll'd,

From Barnsdale shrogs1 to Nottingham's red cliffs.
At Blithe and Tickhill were we welcome guests;
Good George-a-green at Bradford was our friend,
And wanton Wakefield's Pinner loved us well.
At Barnsley dwells a Potter tough and strong,
That never brook'd we brethren should have wrong.
The Nuns of Farnsfield, pretty Nuns they be,
Gave napkins, shirts, and bands, to him and me.
Bateman of Kendal gave us Kendal green,
And Sharpe of Leeds sharp arrows for us made.
At Rotherham dwelt our Bowyer, God him bliss ;
Jackson he hight, his bows did never miss.

[Act iii., Sc. 2.]

Fitzwater, banished, seeking his daughter Matilda (Robin's Marian) in the forest of Sherwood, makes his complaint.

Fitz. Well did he write, and mickle did he know,

That said "This world's felicity was woe,

Which greatest states can hardly undergo.”

1[Shrubs.]