He that, after ten denials,
Dares attempt no farther trials,
Hath no warrant to acquire

The dainties of his chaste desire.

SONNET.

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.

SONNET.

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.

TO SLEEP.

[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.

SIR WALTER Raleigh (a) was born in Devonshire in 1552, and executed in Old Palace Yard, on the 29th October, 1618.

THE SHEPHERD TO THE FLOWERS.

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.

THE NYMPH'S REPLY TO THE *

PASSIONATE SHEPHERD.

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 tongue-a 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.

THOMAS LODGE.

BORN 1556-DIED 1625.

LITTLE is known of this poet, save that he attended the university of Oxford, and studied medicine at Avignon, where he obtained a diploma. He was of the Roman Catholic faith; and when he settled in London as a medical practitioner, he gained extensive practice from the patronage of that party. It is thought he was swept away, among many other unnoticed individuals, by the plague in 1625.

ROSALIND'S MADRIGAL.

LOVE in my bosom, like a bee,
Doth suck his sweet:

Now with his wings he plays with me,

Now with his feet:

Within mine eyes he makes his nest,

His bed amidst my tender breast;

My kisses are his daily feast,
And yet he robs me of my rest:
Ah! wanton, will ye?

And if I sleep, then pierceth he

With pretty slight;

And makes his pillow of my knee

The live-long night.

Strike I my lute, he tunes the string,

He music plays if I but sing;
He lends me every lovely thing,
Yet cruel he my heart doth sting:

Ah! wanton, will ye?