Passeth fair Venus in her bravest hue,
And Juno in the show of majesty,

For she's Samela.

Pallas in wit, all three you well may view,
For beauty, wit, and matchless dignity,

XXIII.

SONG.

Yield to Samela.

A

H! were she pitiful as she is fair,

Or but as mild as she is seeming so,

Then were my hopes greater than my despair,
Then all the world were heaven, nothing woe.
Ah! were her heart relenting as her hand,

That seems to melt even with the mildest touch, Then knew I where to seat me in a land,

Under wide heavens, but yet there is not such. So as she shows, she seems the budding rose, Yet sweeter far than is an earthly flower, Sovereign of beauty, like the spray she grows; Compassed she is with thorns and cankered bower, Yet were she willing to be plucked and worn, She would be gathered, though she grew on thorn.

Ah! when she sings, all music else be still,
For none must be compared to her note;
Ne'er breathed such glee from Philomela's bill,
Nor from the morning-singer's swelling throat.
Ah! when she riseth from her blissful bed,

She comforts all the world as doth the sun, And at her sight the night's foul vapour's fled; When she is set, the gladsome day is done. O glorious sun! imagine me the west,

Shine in my arms, and set thou in my breast.

XXIV.

ROBERT SOUTHWELL,

THE BURNING BABE.

AS I in hoary winter's night

Stood shivering in the snow,
Surprised I was with sudden heat,
Which made my heart to glow;
And lifting up a fearful eye

To view what fire was near,
A pretty babe all burning bright,

Did in the air appear;

Who scorched with excessive heat,

Such floods of tears did shed,

1560-1595.

As though his floods should quench his flames,
Which with his tears were bred.

'Alas!' quoth he, 'but newly born,
In fiery heats I fry,

Yet none approach to warm their hearts
Or feel my fire, but I ;

My faultless breast the furnace is,

The fuel, wounding thorns;

Love is the fire, and sighs the smoke,

The ashes, shames and scorns;

The fuel justice layeth on,

And mercy blows the coals,
The metal in this furnace wrought
Are men's defiled souls:

For which, as now on fire I am,
To work them to their good,

So will I melt into a bath,

To wash them in my blood! With this he vanished out of sight, And swiftly shrunk away,

And straight I called unto my mind That it was Christmas Day.

XXV.

SIR FRANCIS BACON, 1561-1626.

LIFE.

HE World's a bubble; and the life of man

THE

Less than a span:

In his conception wretched; from the womb,

So to the tomb :

Curst from the cradle, and brought up to years,
With cares and fears.

Who then to frail Mortality shall trust
But limmes the water, or but writes in dust.

Yet, since with sorrow here we live opprest,
What life is best?

Courts are but only superficial schools
To dandle fools:

The rural parts are turned into a den
Of savage men :

And where's a city from all vice so free

But may be termed the worst of all the three?

Domestic cares afflict the husband's bed,

Or pains, his head :